


Apotheosis

by KeeperLavellan



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst but not too much?, Beloved and Precious, Character Study, Dalish, Elfy Elf Stuff, Elven Glory, F/M, Fluff, GO AWAY I AM CHEATING ON YOU WITH SOLAS, Halamshiral, Hellspiral, Necromancy, Okay maybe too much, Plus Sometimes Cole, Protect Clan Lavellan, Slow Burn, Spoilers, The Masked Empire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-12
Updated: 2015-08-03
Packaged: 2018-03-01 04:46:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 90
Words: 142,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2760119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KeeperLavellan/pseuds/KeeperLavellan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Wisdom had gone, I hadn’t been sure that Solas would ever return. In time, he did, offering no more explanation than to say, <i>I could hardly abandon you now.</i> Even then the word seemed to catch in my ear. Now. Maybe once before and perhaps one day soon, but not just yet. On that point I had no illusions. Solas was not a man to promise forever, though he was afraid of dying alone.</p><p>Chapters 68 through 82 cover the Protect Clan Lavellan war table mission, the canon story resumes with chapter 83.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Let Yourself Sleep

He was the only thing in Haven that I could understand.

There was no understanding the chains around my wrists, or the angry interrogation. There was no understanding a thousand charred bodies, or the sickly green glow that poured from the sky. There was no understanding the throbbing pain that split the palm of my hand, or the twisted magic that seemed to poison my mana. No understanding demonic ichor strewn across the snow, or a beardless dwarf laying gentle kisses on a blood splattered crossbow.

But an elven mage slinging a barrier of protection around me? An elder grabbing my hand to teach me new magic? A soft spoken _hahren_ , explaining my purpose in the chaos? That was a world that made sense, and everything I knew about being First. If such an elf would lend his magic to their cause, I could do no less.

In those early days, Solas was a lifeline.

When the initial crisis had passed, I was given another thing beyond my understanding: a little house in Haven. I often awoke in a panic, the walls seeming to close in around me, blocking the comfort of the stars with something as insane as a ceiling. I’d slip out the door, onto the roof, and over the walls of the settlement to stealth past the troops in their tents.

I’d scramble across the frozen river and into the woods, to a place where I’d stowed blankets and a flask. That’s all I needed. Just an hour under the stars, with a tree against my back, and enough pilfered brandy to burn away the ragged edges.

And then one night he was there, barefoot like me in the snow, long fingers secured around an arrow. One slender ear quirked at my approach, and a tug at the corner of his mouth told me I was safe. He held himself motionless for a moment more, adjusted his aim, and let the arrow fly.

I couldn’t see his prey from where I stood, but I’d no doubt that he’d made a kill.

“If you can run headlong into the woods without startling a doe, it seems the Dalish may yet have some skill to pass on.”

I ducked my head into an approximation of a bow, “Ma serannas.”

Somewhere along the way, my people had wronged him. That an elf as soft spoken and subtle as Solas made no effort to conceal his disdain spoke to the depth of the injustice. It was a shame as sure as The Long Walk, because we so desperately needed people like him if we were to ever reclaim what was lost.

That was the night I showed him my little cache, and built a fire while he dressed the deer (as skillfully as any Dalish; not that I told him so). Huddled next to him by the fire, I could close my eyes and pretend that I was home. We shared the flask and he told a story of when the Hero of Ferelden had traveled through these woods. She was an elf and a mage too, but circle trained and thus strange to us both.

“Have you ever been with a human?”

He was thinking of her Alistair, I’m sure. There was enough age between us that I felt no tension in the question, no judgment hanging on my answer. I’d heard it said that elven and human bodies made ill-fitting puzzle pieces, though some smirked their appreciation of the mismatch.

“I have not. My clan kept clear of cities, for the most part. We occasionally welcomed shemlen into camp, particularly apostates, but none caught my eye. You?”

“Once,” he said, almost too casually. “I do not recommend it.”

His candor surprised a laugh from me. “It's the hair, all over their faces! I've no stomach for fur.”

“I take it Bianca need not be jealous of your affection for Master Tethras?”

I laughed again, this time in earnest. “He sports a marvelous carpet, but the Lady Crossbow has nothing to fear.”

He smiled to himself, took a nip from my flask. Despite myself I noticed the smoothness of his scalp, like carved marble. And those ears…I capped the flask when he returned it to me— clearly I’d had enough.

“I know it must not seem like it now, but you’ll grow to appreciate those human beds da’len. Their fine linen and down, the herbs strewn in the bedding and the sandalwood posts. Give it time. Let yourself sleep there, however much you’d rather be under the stars. You’ll find it easier to step into their world if you let yourself wake in theirs.”

The night air was so very still, and for the first time since the explosion it felt as if I weren’t drowning in chaos.


	2. Boots and Socks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I can't even imagine the culture shock that would be nipping at an elven mage living in a human settlement, and how that must frame Solas as such a beacon of familiarity despite his aloofness.

Solas was right.

Once you learned not to panic at the sense of sea foam rising up all around, there was a certain womb-like security to be found in a fluffy human bed. I’d sleep steadier in an aravel or the arms of an ironbark, but learning to live in a little house, to confine my fires to a hearth, to open and close a blighted door? It shed light on how it must feel to be human.

They needed to be safe from prying eyes, needed to be safe from fearful skies, needed to compartmentalize every want so that the Chantry stood here, the Apothocary there, and the Tavern down the way.

For a clan it was all jumbled together, our worshiping and healing and drinking. Without doors or walls, privacy was just the notion of certain Things of Which We Would Not Speak. However lonely my little house, it seemed lonelier still to imagine my safety a matter of a bolted door instead of the watchful eyes of my lethallin.

Some nights I'd sit in my little house, studying the walls until it felt like they were strong instead of confining, until the fire in the hearth seemed cradled rather than caged, until I forgot how many great oaks were felled in its making. Then I’d pull on a pair of boots and imagine myself a human girl, ears soft and round. Sometimes I'd walk to the tavern, pretend I were choosing a suitor from among the bearded men.

But it was Varric who'd always pull me to his table, and with him I never needed to pretend.

It was obvious, even if I hadn't read _Tale of the Champion_ , that he knew a thing or two about shepherding lost Dalish mages. He'd tease me whenever I'd forget to wear socks under my boots (so many rules about feet!), and explain the figures of speech that hindered me. He taught me how to play Wicked Grace, how to hold a knife like a utensil instead of a weapon, and how to swear like a dwarf. 

"Don't get me wrong, it's pure poetry," he said before hitching his voice to a falsetto, "'May the Dread Wolf take you!' But nobody knows what you're talking about. Gotta find something with more _oomph._ "

Other times I'd shove the boots under my bed to seek out Solas. He set aside his staff to hunt with a bow every night, taking small game for himself and bringing larger kills to Threnn. It was a precious time to him, so however much I longed for the company of another elf, I forced myself not to follow him too often.

I discovered Solas to be an uncanny marksman. He was more fluent in elven than myself, more deeply familiar with Dalish lore, and more proficient in elemental magic. Despite the damning lack of vallaslin, he was no city elf either. His manner marked him as one of The People, however much he scorned them.

The first time we argued over that point, I called him hahren in my apology. Without even thinking, he called me da’len in return, and so far as I was concerned things were settled between us. Where the humans buried me under titles without meaning (knife ear, apostate, then Herald of Andraste long before Inquisitor), I gave myself purpose as First to a surrogate Keeper. These were titles that meant something.

After a hunt one night, facing each other across the fire, he surprised me with a question.

“Why do you join me here?”

I was just enough of a hunter to sense a trap. He expected me to fall back on something inherently elven, because he loved to slap down Dalish expectation. I'd no intention of giving him the satisfaction, not that it was any stretch to think of another reason.

"Because you practice a magic unlike any other."

"Not when I hunt," he said to lay a second trap.

"Liar," I reached for him through the veil, playfully pushing a bit of mana from the mark on my hand to send traces of green light shimmering over his features. "I've never seen a mage pull their aura as close as a second skin."

Something in the way his brows knit together told me I'd done the wrong thing. Perhaps he thought I was scoffing at him, the way Vivienne and Dorian so often did.

"It is...unexpected of you to notice."

He said nothing further on the subject, but I felt bad about it for days. Nothing seemed amiss on our travels, but after that he wore his aura as loose and swirling as any other mage. I wanted to shrug it off, but the change gnawed at me and I thought it better to give him his space.

In the evenings I began pestering Blackwall instead, having him teach me to better guard my flank. He helped me choose the metals and leather to craft a blade for the end of my staff, then taught me drills I could practice until I grew used to the added weight. Some weeks later he insisted on walking me home, then lingered on my doorstep long enough for me to realize that a human girl in her human boots might accept the thing that he wordlessly offered.

So I didn't back away when he took a step closer, and I didn't pull my hand from his when he lifted it to his mouth. His lips were warm and full, and he placed a kiss on the top of my hand with a gentleness that surprised as much as the softness of his beard. He gave a shallow bow, asked for nothing more.

"My lady."

And that was that. The next morning I woke to a Dalish longbow set beside me on the bed.

However much Solas pretended that he wasn't defined by his elven features, and however much I pretended to be a human girl, it was only some shared shred of culture that made the gesture sweet. A human girl would not appreciate being watched and a human girl would expect a knock, but my boots were shoved under the bed and my ears knife sharp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I accidentally flirted with Blackwall enough that I had to formally break up with him to carry on with Solas, so hints of that taint my perspective.


	3. Territorial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Re-imagining the time that Solas oh so casually mentions that seeing the Inquisitor dominated would be fascinating. Plus Dorian is a total boss.

“What’s this, a bow? I could have sworn you were a mage.”

Dorian was leaning against the doorframe of his little house, eying me as I came up the path. He was, quite simply, the most handsome shemlen I’d ever seen. I loved everything about him, from his confidence and brash magic to the way he made even certain death sound like marvelous fun.

I loved him for saving us, for being the only person who truly understood what was at stake, and for never, ever, bringing it up.

He stroked his mustache a moment, “Perhaps I was thinking of another elf, I do have trouble telling you all apart.”

“Then how do you know that I am not a handsome man, come to seduce you?”

“That is a good question,” he said, appraising me from head to toe. “You're so scrawny I think I might almost be able to pretend, so long as we left your pants on.”

“Shame about your ears then, because I might have been willing to overlook that mustache.”

He splayed his fingers across his chest, curled his lip back in horror, “Overlook my mustache? Ah, now I recognize you, you’re that horrible Herald of Somesuch.”

“At your service.”

“Then tell me this: why do you and that ragged little hedge mage insist on plunging arrows into helpless woodland creatures when you could simply cast a spell to have them dead and roasted all at once?”

Because hunting let me feel as if I weren’t so far from my clan? Because every pull of a bowstring was a prayer to Andruil? Because there was tranquility out in the snow, unblemished by demons and shades? Because I’d concede to any task, however mundane, to be near Solas?

“Nostalgia, I suppose? It feels good to draw on strength rather than mana, to remember what it was like before becoming a mage.”

He made a disgusted _tchhh_ noise with his tongue, “How dreadful.”

“And here I was about to invite you to join us.”

Now he was retreating into his cottage, waving me off with one hand. “No, no, run along. I have some potions to alphabetize.”

I crossed the snowy square to the hut Threnn had assigned to Solas, then paused with my hand on the latch. I’d been here just long enough to second guess my decision to push it open without knocking. After all, hadn't Solas done the same?

He was perched on the corner of the desk, wrapping his foot.

“There you are,” he said without looking up. He finished up, tucking and threading the loose end to secure the binding. Then he strode out the door with his bow, making no mention of the one I now carried.

As we set out for the logging stand, a question burned in my mind.

The night at Redcliffe Castle had been one of those Things of Which We Would Not Speak. After making my official report, I never brought it up and none of my companions ventured to ask. Dorian was the only person who _knew,_ and the most he'd ever said of it was, "We shall not let it be so."

When Cassandra volunteered her life to defend us, he saw a noble Seeker of Truth. When Envy Demons tore Leliana limb from limb, he saw the final strike against a woman long dead. When the Pride Demon threw Solas' corpse at its feet, he only saw another dead elf. However much he'd come to care for me now, Tevinter had numbed Dorian to the slight of a dead elf long ago. Compared to the horrors of that world, the passing of three strangers was the least of Dorian's concern.

It was well and truly the stuff of nightmares, and it plagued me still. Yet the death (or potential death) of Cassandra and Leliana troubled me the least. It had been their Inquisition, and they'd given it their lives from the start. The Right and Left hands of the Divine burned for vengeance, so when they died, they died for Justinia. But Solas had only come to help; he had no gods to bring him comfort, no righteous cause to cling to, and so despite our success I often felt his blood still on my hands.

Some version of him somewhere had pledged his life to me, then given it with no more than a backwards glance. It had immeasurably deepened my faith in _this_ Solas, whom Leliana and Cassandra still held at arms length.

In the here and now, Solas had a quail in his sights and anything I wanted to say would have to wait. He let loose and the bird fell, scarring a hare from the underbrush. Riding on instinct, I’d nocked an arrow and let it fly, killing the hare outright.

“Impressive. And here I'd hoped to give you lessons.”

“Andruil’s luck. It’s been a while.”

“Luck had nothing to do with it, da’len. You train your will to control magic and withstand possession. Your indomitable focus is a side benefit.”

“Indomitable focus?”

He shrugged, “Presumably. I have yet to see it dominated. I imagine that the sight would be…fascinating.”

For a second the ocean roared in my ears, then I skipped ahead to claim our spoils and hide the laughter that threatened to bubble up. Ah, Creators, elders set themselves up for hapless innuendo all too easily. (Once, Mother Giselle waxed poetic on the “unrelenting touch of the Maker.”)

I shouldered my bow and kept my back to Solas, still not trusting myself _not_ to joke. This wasn't Dorian's aimless innuendo, but the absent words of a hahren. If Solas were fascinated with domination, I could trust it nothing more than the strategic interest of a tactician. Gods, it was funny though.

Then a rush of air brushed past me, and I felt a hot spray of blood on my face. I flung up a reflexive barrier as a wolf stumbled out of the underbrush before me, an arrow in its eye. It staggered another pace and fell dead at my feet. I was absolutely stunned, this wasn't the blighted Hinterlands.

Solas knelt to retrieve his arrow, “Poor fellow.”

It was terribly bad luck, and I called fire to my fingers; no Dalish left a dead wolf in the woods to mock Fen’Harel.

He saw fire licking up my arm and shook his head.

“Put aside your superstition, da’len. Let this warn his pack that they've wandered into another's territory.”


	4. Fascinating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seriously? Can you imagine a world where Solas didn't troll the eff out Lavellan?

Some days later I’d have to consider the fact that Solas had, in fact, chosen his words carefully.

A Pride Demon caught me unawares near a rift at Redcliffe Farm, snatching me off my feet with one monstrous arm wrapped around my ribcage and crushing me to its chest. Its other hand snapped up my chin, exposing my throat to drag razor tipped claws across. An instant before it could, I channeled lightning through my body instead of my staff.

I had intended to paralyze it and slip away, but the shock only caused the demon to spasm its arms even more tightly. I’d no mana left to fight and little breath to scream. Everything seemed to grind to a halt as I spotted Iron Bull facing down a Shade, Sera trying not to shit herself in front of a Despair Demon, and Solas even farther away, bridging ice across the narrow stream.

In a moment the Pride Demon would regain its bearings, and in a moment I’d be dead. I reached out for my magic to find the mark on my palm burning but useless, so there was more than a little panic in my gasping cry, “Somebody, help!”

Suddenly I was tumbling down a faraway hill, desperately clinging to _someone._ Solas.

He must have taken a Fade Step through the fight to reach me, then another to catapult us to a muddy patch at the edge of the creek. I landed face down with him atop me, the air knocked from my lungs. I thrashed to scramble up, but he was pinning me with his weight and gripping the nape of my neck with one hand to hold me down. Magic crackled through the air, and I distantly realized he was protecting me from his staff, spinning above as he cast a blizzard into the fray to cover our retreat.

The air stilled and he shifted suddenly, his grip tightening, body bending. Something warm and soft grazed the blade of my ear in the rush of a whisper.

“Fascinating.”

He stepped back through the fade and into the battle, leaving me breathless and alone. And half naked, as it turned out. Somewhere in the creek basin, a demon’s corpse clutched the remains of my empty cloak in one monstrous paw.

It took all the bravado of an Antivan Crow to march back and close the Rift wearing little more than Dalish underwrapping and leather breeches. Sera crammed her fingers in her mouth to whistle, then took them back out to clap her wild applause.

“There she is, the pride of the Dalish, her gracious Ladybits!”

“Fuckin’ hot, Boss.”

I was not wrong in suspecting that it would be a long march back to Haven. Sera and Bull were busy inventing the tale of my "Strip Defense" which rendered demons senseless, and there was no dissuading them from embellishing to the extent that I had actually wound up naked. Never mind that I was covered from breastbone to hip, never mind my leather breeches and bracers perfectly intact.

Somewhere along the way, Solas draped his long, green vest around me, the backs of his fingers briefly grazing my shoulders. It was a chiefly symbolic gesture as I was by no means indecent; the persistent redness in my ears (which Sera all too gleefully pointed out) had far more to do with a single word. _Fascinating._

I couldn’t stop thinking of Solas anew, for the first time noticing the lean lines of muscle that belied his age, the way he gripped his staff, and the sternness that often edged into his voice. Creators, I was a mess. The roughness of our tumble down the hill and the ghost of his hand still lingering on my neck turned the memory of an awkward phrasing into something else entirely. He’d mean what he said on our hunt then, about seeing me dominated. Even _thinking_ it sent a fresh wave of heat twitching from the tips of my ears down to….

Bull and Sera made straight for the tavern, while Solas continued down the path alone. I wanted very much to follow after him, but it would have been a terribly obvious thing. So I feigned enthusiasm in joining the others at Flissa's, buying time to process exactly what transpired.

Solas had never even acknowledged a kinship between us, aside from calling me _little child_ , nor had I imagined him anything more than _elder_. I was not his equal; not in knowledge or skill, not in wisdom, nor strategy. I had such an admiration for his experience in the Fade, for the insights he freely shared, and the way he managed to ease my transition among the shemlen. I often wondered if his antagonism toward the Dalish weren't a kindness meant to distract from the homesickness that threatened to swallow me whole. Might not his flirtation be the same?

He'd seen me flirt with, well, everyone else often enough. Dorian and I came on to each other harder than sailors in a port tavern, while my archer played at luring me to "Team Sera." We were all perfectly aware of our disparate inclinations, so our teasing felt safe; a little game to pass the time. I flirted with Varric to make Bianca blush (he insisted that she did), and Iron Bull to provoke the outrageous commentary; my only misstep had been with Blackwall, who was sincere in his affection. I was thankful that his sense of chivalry let it be one of those Things of Which We Would Not Speak.

Perhaps Solas thought us close enough that he could join in too, presuming my disinterest. Creators, but it was different with him.

It's a Keeper's job to remember, and he had collected more elven memories and lore than all the clans combined. It's a Keeper's job to protect, and in some awful world he'd already given me his life. It was a Keeper's job to train up a First, and was he not doing so in teaching me to strengthen the veil? The only role of a Keeper he could not fulfill was in branding me with vallaslin, but somehow I felt he'd left a mark on me none the less.

Solas might not call himself my Keeper, but I saw in us the same dynamic and felt our relationship worthy of the same respect. He was not a smirking Dalish rogue like Jovan that I could drag down into an aravel, nor a herdsman like Cailon to take me out in a field. He was a teacher and a mentor and a friend, returning the same playful banner I threw at everyone else so easily.

Lost in those thoughts I lost track of how many times Sera brought me a drink, and by the end of it Varric declared me so unbelievably, shitastically drunk that he insisted on seeing me home. I watched him amble off from my window before slipping out and scrambling up to the roof and over the walls. I was too drunk to suffer drowning in a fluffy human bed.

I found my cache just as I'd left it and banished the wards that kept it safe. My staff was still at home, but I needed only my fingertips to set a woodless fire burning in the snow. I shook out my blankets and curled up like a cat, falling asleep with the sharp scent of resin and elfroot in a borrowed woolen vest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love, love, love the desperate panic of Alix Wilton Regan's, "Somebody, help!" whenever a British Inquisitor is attacked and her health is low. But I kiiiiiiinda wish it didn't trigger when I'm just fighting a spider in a cavern and being lazy about my potions, so embarrassing.
> 
> Also, I'd like to think that Merrill's lingerie was actually some very authentic Dalish thing.


	5. In Your Heart Shall Burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The speech Solas gives the Inquisitor at the veilfire torch is such a turning point in their relationship, from friendly banter in Haven to the more serious tone he adopts once the threat of Corypheus has crystallized.

Corypheus had wrenched my arm from its socket and crushed my wrist in his hand. The pain was blinding, and I hadn’t a potion to spare. It felt like days of stumbling through caverns and trudging through waist-deep snow. There were no stars to guide me or landmarks along the path, but my mark— the Anchor, he called it— was sputtering dark magic that seemed to drag me through the night.

And then there was Cullen, scooping me into his arms, and Cassandra somewhere near to whisper her prayer of thanks. Then it was nothing but blackness and fitful sleep, the sense of drowning and falling and pulling but never feeling free. It was anger and fear and panic swirling all around, but a warm hand on my brow when I woke.

I was not expecting Mother Giselle, but there she was. She turned away every panicked thought with a gentle word, quelled blasphemy by abstracting belief until there was room enough for us both. And when the memory of Corypheus threatened to overwhelm me once more, she sang.

I thought it a sort of lullaby, then Leliana’s voice joined in, scheming and violence set aside for something sweet and pure. I recalled that she’d once been a Chantry sister, then realized it must be part of the Chant. Cullen lifted his broken voice, which emboldened the soldiers and pulled the whole camp into song.

It was haunting and beautiful, raw shemlen worship that left me on the outside looking in. Then my stomach churned as, one by one, the people began falling at my feet. Comfort slipped away and I was alone in standing; these were not my people, not my songs, not my gods, not my home. Please get up, get up, get up, get up, get up, get up, get up…

I was paralyzed. The last time an elf dared to tread in matters of human faith, they’d cut of his ears and burned him on a pyre. Shartan was no hero among the Dalish, but a cautionary tale: do not get involved. 

When it all closed in around me, there was a sharp voice from behind.

“A word.”

My heart lurched again. I hadn’t even seen Solas since we were parted at the trebuchets, and instead of a warm greeting he was briskly leaving camp. I grabbed my staff and rushed after him— if his instincts were anything like mine, then it was time for two elven mages to be gone. This was a tightrope we could not walk.

Then I noticed his gait was relaxed. Confident, even swaggering, as he took me to a small grove and lit a veilfire torch. When he spoke, he sounded unlike I’d ever heard him before; Solas addressed me as an equal.

“The humans have not raised one of our people so high for ages beyond counting. Her faith is hard won, lethallin, worthy of pride."

 _Lethallin_ , one of his kinsmen. I did not fail to notice that he’d never called me that before. Away from prying eyes, he stood every inch an elf. More than an elf, the way a prince is more than a man— noble. And somehow he was _proud_ that a ragged crowd of terrified shemlen had bowed at my feet to heap their unwanted faith on my shoulders. There was a look in his eye I'd never seen in anyone.

My head was spinning. The man who treated his elven nature as irrelevant as the color of his eyes now spoke freely of “our people” and “our gods.” And then he brought me into his confidence; the orb was "ours" too. Exactly the sort of revelation that could bend reverence to violence.

“I’ve no doubt they’d dock my ears, Solas, but what am I to do?”

“We must be above suspicion to be seen as valued allies.”

We.

At the time he sounded so wise, and it wasn’t until much, much later that I'd realize he wasn’t talking about me at all.


	6. Lethallin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> En route to Skyhold, Lavellan tests the waters with Solas to find out why, exactly, he calls her lethallin.

He sent me scouting north, and nightmares hounded me in the fade along the way. Memories of my arm wrenched out of socket, Corypheus dangling me aloft, pulling me toward his awful face. Behind him demons swirled, promising to lend their power to my cause if only I would reach out with my other hand, if only I would call their name, if only I would open a rift, if only, if only…

The scar on my palm throbbed with twisted magic, and a steady voice pulled me from the darkness.

I was wrapped up in his arms, he was stroking my hair.

“Ma’eth, lethallin. Daratisha, ma’eth. Ma’eth.”

The Fade was still dragging on my thoughts, demonic whispers not yet quiet. _Let us help you, little elf._

When I’d finally grown calm, Solas let go and rocked back on his heels.

“I came to wake you lest the whole camp think us under attack.”

I half-sobbed a little laugh. “It was Corypheus, and demons were—”

His voice was hard, “They cannot reach you.”

I palmed the clammy sweat from my forehead, my eyes adjusting to the dim light.

“Would you like some air?” he asked. “Come with me, lethallin.”

He led me through the hundred tents, our bare feet crunching in the snow, and along the rock wall that bound us in on the East. He climbed up a jagged outcropping, then brought me through a crevasse that fed into a larger ravine. The air felt thick and warm, humid.

“I noticed steam escaping the rock face when we made camp,” he said.

“A hot spring!”

He brought me to a place with a few snowy rocks that led to a rough hewn cavern where steam billowed out into the night air. He bowed slightly and turned his back on me.

“After you.”

Where a human might pause to fret over some Chantry shame, the Dalish had no such qualms. We didn't have time to pretend that each one of us could hoard a river to ourselves for the sake of some misbegotten modesty. Women might love women just as easily as men, so segregating ourselves seemed pointless. I shucked off my sweat soaked clothes, and unwound the cotton ribbon that bound me from breast to hip. When I sank into the water, it was with a stream of profanities escaping in alternate waves of pain and delight. Gods, it was hot. 

“All settled,” I called out when the water nearly reached my chin.

I kept my eyes low, but heard the soft clink of his many buckles and straps coming undone, and the quiet rustle of cotton and ring velvet, then nothing more than a ripple as he joined me without complaint. I looked up to the full moon and the splattering of stars beyond, then felt my anxiety begin to uncoil in waves.

His smile was thin but warm. “Dorian will give us no end of grief should he hear that we elves were bathing in the moonlight.”

There he was, invoking _we_ so readily when just days ago he’d taken me to task for including him among “our” people.

“Then should we frolic, hahren? Sing to the Creators?”

“Perish the thought.”

We lounged across from one another in companionable silence, our legs stretched out before us, and I was grateful to be allowed the chance to soak my nightmare away. I found a smooth stone in the water to scrub at my skin, and Solas told me about ancient elven bath houses in the Exalted Plains.

I spotted paw prints in the snow as he spoke, a lone wolf had tread here not long ago, and for a moment I wished we had the protective walls of those forgotten bath houses. They were larger than I’d ever seen, nearly a handspan across. I was reminded of the wolf he’d killed outside of Haven, and that we had not even arrows now.

I inclined my head toward the tracks, “Is it wise that we came without our staves?”

The corner of his mouth twitched up in a devious smile, “Is the Herald of Andraste afraid of a wolf?”

I snorted my disbelief and leaned back against the rock wall as if to exaggerate my calm. The turn of conversation brought my attention to Solas’ wolf bone amulet, resting neatly atop his clothes.

Dalish propriety had carried me this far, but this one detail made me suddenly, keenly aware that he was well and truly naked. His neck was bare, and water pooled in the hollows of his clavicle. I imagined my tongue darting out to lap at it, imagined straddling him and thumbing his ear. Unlike Varric or Blackwall, the skin on his chest was smooth and the wiry muscle sharp underneath. He clearly did not spend _all_ of his time in the Fade.

He nudged my leg with a toe, jolting me from my fantasy. “You seem lost in thought, lethallin.”

However chaste, given the unspoken rules of a hot spring any touch at all was a violation of those boundaries. Or an invitation to tear them down. I wondered if the want were written so plainly on my face.

I glanced up and caught him following the lines of my vallaslin, from my lower lip and down my throat to where blood writing disappeared below the waterline. So this tension between us was not an imagined thing.

“I was wondering, why do you call me _lethallin_?”

“Should I deny our kinship?”

“Forgetting for a moment that you so often do, is it not properly declined lethallan for women?”

“Ah,” and then came a laugh, “a recent trend. Ancient elves made no distinction between male and female.”

“Oh? I thought perhaps you might appreciate the distinction.”

Committing to a gambit, I rose from the water to stand at his feet. The water reached only mid-calf, and my nipples tightened in the cold air. His eyes flicked down the remaining trail of vallaslin, from my jawline and between my breasts, then lower still where they fanned out across my hips. The sign of June, sylvanwood branches in full.

I shifted my weight to step forward and his jaw clenched.

“Ir abelas, da’len, I should be more careful with my words.” He carefully fixed his eyes on some point in the snow.

To my credit, I didn’t flinch, but I wasn’t about to gather up my clothes and run off like a scolded child.

“Ir abelas, I should not have mentioned it.”

I left my clothes where they were, Dread Wolf take them, and stepped down from the spring. Safely through the ravine and away from his gaze, or rather the horrible weight of his averted eyes, I began shaking violently. I had magic enough to mask my return to camp, but by the time I’d buried myself in blankets, my breath was ragged and stuttering. Creators, what had I done?

I’d never misjudged a man so badly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Ma’eth, lethallin. Daratisha, ma’eth. Ma’eth.” = "You're safe, lethallin. Be at peace, you are safe. You are safe."
> 
> A little non-canon here, but I just needed to see more evidence that holding back had been an ongoing struggle for Solas and that Lavellan had actually been wearing down his patience for a while.
> 
>  **Updated** because Chickens.Quack made this [sexy ass](http://chickensquack.tumblr.com/post/119190664785/lethallin-apotheosis-chap-6) rendition of Rial and Solas in the hot spring. *fans self*


	7. Rifts Were Closing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a transition, as everyone settles into Skyhold and Lavellan tries to reframe her understanding of Solas.

We continued through the mountains bearing north, Solas now calling me da’len with the same cool tone Cullen used to invoke _Herald_. To the Commander, I was either a prophet of Andraste or an apostate one spell away from abomination. Titles kept a distance between us, so that he wouldn’t hesitate to serve or smite when the time came. And so Solas did the same, framing me as a child distracted from her studies, unwilling to acknowledge that I'd ever offered more.

Skyhold changed everything. I knew it to be a present of sorts, but it was only one more thing I could not understand. I’d only just managed to find peace in the walls and doors of Haven, a ramshackle settlement at best, an now I was locked within battlements and parapets set behind obsidian gates. There were no trees in the bailey, or at least none to satisfy my Dalish sensibilities, and the grass was patchy and bare.

Where everyone else was lost in the wonder of it, I was simply lost.

I could make no sense of the winding corridors, and doors never opened into the places that I'd expect. Some closed altogether. Solas was beyond my reach now, going so far as to station himself in the rotunda, quite literally under Leliana’s nose. If I wanted to speak with him, I’d have to choose words I wouldn’t mind echoing through the whole tower as our every conversations would be a matter of public record.

He'd still explain more complicated matters with his usual grace, and I could always garner his slight approval with a clever question, but he'd have done no less for Cassandra. I remembered when we were strangers who'd shared a flask in the woods, and when his friendship was my Anchor. It felt to me as if a shimmering thread ran between us, one that couldn’t be cut or broken. I contented myself by thinking that if it were real, it didn't matter whether we ever spoke of it or not.

Before we'd even settled our wounded soldiers, Leliana and Cassandra arranged an ambush to declare me the Inquisition’s _de facto_ leader; as if that made any sense at all. Did they not see that it was Solas? That it had always been Solas? While they once fretted over a Chantry murder mystery, he risked everything to study the breach itself. While they debated sending me off to Val Royeaux for trial, he discovered my Anchor was the key. While they worried over broken Circles and rogue Templars, he found ways to strengthen the veil and protect us all. Where even King Alistair only wanted an excuse to banish Fiona and her mages, Solas saw a chance to finally close the Breach. When we were scattered and lost, he gave us Skyhold.

It infuriated me that they refused to acknowledge his right, that he never reached out to claim what should be his, that he'd been pushing me toward this from the start. But most of all, I was infuriated with myself for grasping for more. So when I stood on the steps to pick up their heavy shemlen sword, I gave myself over to building an Inquisition rather than a clan.

In short order I had a wardrobe of human clothes, down to socks and smalls and a breastband. The tunic and breeches were simple but fine, plush Fustian velvet inlaid with milky quartz and trimmed in copper. I was told the design came from the Free Marches, as if I were from Wycome rather than the wilderness around it.

I had them install Ferelden glass in the widows, hang Dwarven draperies, raise Dalish banners, build a Qunari throne— I'd make it known that the Inquisition stood for Thedas. I slept in an Orlesian bed made with honey colored silk and I considered it a sort of rune; if I laid within its boundaries it could steel me for The Game. Dressing each morning was a ritual, a spell that might transform an elf meant for the robes of a Keeper into a human girl raised for the throne.

I still wore Dalish armor when traveling, I’d be a fool to upset my comfort in combat, and I kept us traveling almost constantly. The Anchor called out a sort of hunger, driving me to gather magic. I’d only known a few spells as First; how to call a campfire, set protective runes, calm a halla with sleep… But now my magic felt dangerous, and I set aside my defensive spells to go on the attack. Sometimes in battle lightning struck enemies without my command, and sometimes my Mark flared out of control, shredding packs of Pride Demons the way sunlight dispels a mist.

If others noticed how I loosely I held my own leash, they said nothing. The rifts were closing, after all, one by one.

In the evenings, Josephine would visit my chambers in secret and we dined together every night. I didn't care what was said if others noticed her comings and goings, but with Josephine's discretion I doubt anyone knew at all. She taught me how to lay a napkin across my lap, how to hold a wineglass by its stem, and the careful order to the flatware that dictated their use. The tiny fork for shellfish, and the one with two tines for lotus root; the narrow spoon for scooping out marrow, and the broad one meant for soup. This knife was for butter, and that for carving meat.

Josephine explained to me all the titles and positions I’d never learned— your grace, your highness, your majesty, your reverence, your holiness, First Enchanter, Lady Magister, Lord Seeker, Ser Knight. Most importantly, she taught me to hide the curl of my lip whenever someone bowed to whisper, “your worship.”

I suspect she regarded me with a gentle disdain. I thought that if anyone as soft hearted as Josie could hold a lack of social grace against me, then I'd never win the nobles to our cause. So I put aside my indignation at bowing to shemlen custom and redoubled my efforts to learn.

As if courtly manners might help me forget the way his hand felt on the back of my neck or that he’d once called me lethallin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Changing the pacing here a bit, because I need to unpack more of what happens between Solas and Lavellan between finding Skyhold and meeting Hawke. So let's just pretend Hawke is not anxiously pacing the battlements for a month....


	8. Deft Hands, Fine Tools

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I swear Solas is coming back in a big way, but Cole is so central to his relationship to Lavellan that I needed to take a moment to see how our Inquistor might be hurting.

Skyhold was work without end. Hauling out the refuse and debris that had piled up in years of abandonment, mending holes in the roof, shoring up the masonry, and scrounging for herbs to treat our many wounded. Other wounds could not be patched up so easily; I sat with Cole when a gracious cut ended the life of a soldier who’d been limping along since Haven.

I wanted so very badly for the man to be alright, but as Cole projected his every waking thought, it became clear that death was a kindness. When it was over and the surgeon who saw it made to forget, I was chagrined to find Josephine hadn’t yet trained the Dalish out of me as I licked my thumb to smudge away a splash of blood on Cole’s cheek.

Gods, he looked something like a corpse himself.

His skin was mottled and grey, lips a little blue, and his eyes veiled by a cloudy film. Yet he had a shy sweetness that reminded me of my own little brother before he’d become so clever with his knives. I imagined he was with the clan somewhere near Tantervale by now, probably not the barefaced young man I’d left behind.

I took Cole’s hand in my own, led him up stone steps to the southern turret, through a half rotted wooden door that led into the upper reaches of the tavern. It smelled like pine logs and roasted meats, spiced ale and leather. It was warm and cheerful, with bursts of laughter and music drifting up through the rafters. I thought it might be the sort of place where a Spirit of Compassion might not be crushed by the worries of the surgeon or the tension of the practice yard.

“See? You’ll always be close enough to see what’s happening, but not so much that their hurts hurt you back.”

“You hid in a tavern, too," he said slowly, "The one that’s buried in snow.”

“I wasn’t hiding, Cole. I was learning about my new friends.”

“‘Not my people, not my songs, not my gods, not my home!’”

For a second I was out in the darkness again, somewhere between Haven and Skyhold, and so very afraid. I cocked my head to smile at him under the brim of his hat.

“Just don’t tell them that, da'len. They’ve shown me such kindness.”

“But they put you in a prison, bound you in chains!”

It was a strange thing to hear _my_ panic in his voice, remembering for me. It was a moment I tried not to think about, when I first woke in the Chantry basement.

“It’s…more complicated than that. I was unknown to them, a Dalish apostate, and they were scared.”

“You were scared, but you didn’t hurt anyone. You tried to help.”

“It's a little depressing when you put it like that, but I suppose that makes us a bit alike, you and I. Trying to help even when we don’t quite belong.”

“Yes." And then he was quick to add, "But I’m not pretending.”

Cole's words blew through me, and my snug velvet tunic suddenly felt too thin. I was awed by this little spirit, the way he knew just where to slip the knife.

“I can keep them for you,” he offered, and I didn’t have to ask.

I perched on the crate beside him, and he helped me tug off my leather boots. He quietly picked the lock on an old chest in the corner to cram them inside, then Cole held out his hand until I gave him my woolen socks too.


	9. Leave Her Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A road trip to the Exalted Plains, a campfire story, and a crumbling resolve.

“Hey, Inky. Know what’s good for not slippin’ onna patch of ice?”

We hadn’t even fully crossed the bridge from Skyhold, and I was regretting my decision to bring Sera.

“Shoes,” she finished. “Answer’s shoes.”

“They’re as uncomfortable as fuck and you know it.”

“Yeah, like gettin’ shite in your toes?”

It was going to be a long, long journey.

Leliana had brought word of a Dalish clan in the Exalted Plains whose First had run off to the Emerald Graves. At least clan Lavellan had time enough to prepare for my departure; I feared that without a true First to aid in their protection this clan would be yet another casualty of the Orlesian civil war.

So instead of offering my assistance outright, a charity the Dalish would likely not accept, I wanted to negotiate their help in rebuilding Skyhold. It would be work enough to see them through the winter, and they could find shelter and trade within our walls. If they had the skill to smelt glass for the windows, all the better. It would be worth redoing if it meant every ray of light to illuminate the great hall would be tinted with elven magic.

I’d brought Sera, along with Solas and Varric, to show this clan that the Inquisitor was no shemlen pawn. Of course, bringing along two flat-ears posed a risk, but less so than a Qunari or a Human if my own clan were any indication. As it turned out, Keeper Hawen provided a warm welcome with nothing more than my vallaslin to recommend us.

His own brother was Hahren to an alienage in Lydes, and so neither Solas nor Sera could egg him on. Hawen was not the sort of Dalish with an axe to grind, and my heart sang to see The People so well represented. The Keeper was open to the idea of wintering in Skyhold, but had unfinished business to attend on the Plains.

It took two days to help settle their affairs, and on the second night the clan held a feast. There were small fishes roasted in nettle leaves, boiled lotus root, and flatbread baked on heated stones. After we ate, several of us went out to the Enavuris to bathe. Later we sat around the fire, and Varric told the wildest story about a Dalish named Daisy who met Asha’bellanar at the Altar of Mythal on Sundermount.

Emalien sat on a log behind me, her fingers gently touching the top of my wet head.

“I don’t know what I’d do,” she said softly, “without my lethallan to tie up my hair.”

“Ma serannas, it has been a very long time since I've worn braids.”

My hair was nearly waist length, but fuzzy and ragged by my left ear where Adan had to shave it clean to stitch up a gash. It was traditional for a First to let it grow until ascending to Keeper, when it would be cut short to signify new beginnings. I'd almost cut it all off in Haven, but I wasn't quite ready to admit I would not begin anew with my own clan once more. As Varric's story wore on, I let my eyes drift shut. It felt so, so close to being home. 

Varric had just reached to the part where Asha’bellanar turned into a dragon, the surprise in his voice convincing me that he'd _actually_ seen her. Yet flickering firelight and the steady rhythm of Emalien's plaiting fingers pulled me into sleep despite my interest.

It had been a very long day, and a sad one. We'd found her brother's journal in a pile of rubble, but Varric had known just how to twist the darkness of what we learned into something more manageable. Not that death was ever manageable. After she finished braiding, Emalien kept stroking my hair as if I were a cat. I’d done it for my little sisters a thousand times before, lulling them to sleep by the fire; surely she was remembering her brother.

She later slid out from behind me, tucking a folded blanket under my head, and I snuggled down as quiet footfalls told me she’d made her escape.

“Inquisitor?”

It was Solas, but before I could rouse myself another blanket was falling around my shoulders. Emalien answered him in hushed whispers.

“She fell asleep a little while ago, Hahren. I couldn’t bring myself to wake her.”

“Then I shall do so,” he answered, ever pragmatic. “Our people have set up camp nearby.”

“It must be difficult to imagine, having grown up in the city, but we Dalish are quite happy under the stars. You should leave her be.”

I drew on the Focus of a thousand battles to kill the twitching muscles of a smile that threatened to blow my cover. Never had a Dalish more respectfully called another of The People a flat-ear. Minutes of silence stretched on after that, leaving me to guess whether Solas had bowed his head in mock respect or given her a stern look in parting.

Whatever the case, I said a silent prayer to Sylaise that she’d driven him from the campfire. I hadn’t slept beneath the stars since our journey to Skyhold, and it had been even longer since I’d done so without fearing for my life. I would have given up this moment up for Solas to scold me like a child, but I wouldn’t have been any happier for it.

There was a quiet sound beside me, like someone crouching by the fire, and a gentle hand on my head once more. It seemed my lethallan had come to guard me from the flat-earred hahren. I don’t know how much longer I slept, warm fingers feathering over my hair, but when a calloused thumb ran along the edge of my ear, I knew that it was Solas.

I didn’t dare move. If he knew that I was awake, he gave no indication. How long would this go on? Seconds seemed to stretch into hours, then for a brief moment his fingers tightened in my hair.

“You should leave her be,” he whispered.

And then he was gone.


	10. It Must Be a Sickness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Solas loses his composure for a moment, then dials that shit back just a little too hard.

I woke to the familiar sounds of morning in a clan. Halla hooves stamping at the dirt, women laughing as they returned from the stream with traps full of fish, and the Keeper casting fresh wards around camp. Solas was sitting near the fire, sipping a mug of something, and studiously looking away by the time I made a show of opening my eyes and stretching out from the blankets.

“Sleep well?” he asked, as if noticing me for the first time.

I never knew what to do with him. He’d already shown that he’d step out of reach if I forced the issue, and yet he kept placing himself in my path. The tension between us was a hangnail I couldn't leave alone. I stood and shook out the blanket, trying to match his nonchalance by folding it absently as I spoke.

“It must be difficult to imagine, Solas, having grown up in the city... but we Dalish believe that when a boy pulls a girl’s hair, it’s to get her attention.”

He clenched his jaw the way he'd done in the hot spring, rose to his feet and tossed the remains of his morning cup on the fire.

“If I wanted your attention, lethallin, I’d have you on your knees.”

My stomach twisted at the shock of it, my ears went hot. He took a step closer and for a moment his eyes were on something in distance, then he dropped his gaze and his tone turned sharp.

“Keep playing these little games with Dorian, da’len, but do not push me again.”

The last four words came out in a clipped staccato, and I stood as still as stone. There was real heat there, an anger just beneath the surface. He strode off toward where Varric had made camp, and I numbly returned the blankets to Emalien and hid myself in the simple work of packing our gear.

Time and again, I misjudged my interaction with Solas. I don't think I'd ever seen him angry before, not like this. But, Creators, it must be a sickness that it still quickened my pulse. Once we hit the road, I was grateful for Sera's inane chatter. Anything, anything else was better than thinking about it. 

I’d planned on making for the Emerald Graves in search of Hawen's missing First, but now I turned us to Skyhold.

Solas disappeared into the rotunda as soon as we returned, and I realized I had no hope of dragging Sera or Varric back on the road. We were all tired from the journey, but I was not tired enough by half. I would not survive a day of stewing in my quarters, nor the paperwork of the war table. So I caught Cassandra and Blackwall in the courtyard, then sent word for Dorian— I wasn’t setting foot in that gods forsaken tower to fetch him.

I wanted to kill things, but I should have known better than to think there'd be any happy endings in a place called the Emerald Graves. There was an awkward silence after I tore through a giant on my own, destroying the thing in unrelenting waves of fire and lightning and the void of the Fade. We cleared out a whole grove of them to reach the spot Hawen had marked on my map, but finding only a broken aravel and cold elven corpses brought the darkness closing in around me. The sylvanwood ring of Fen’Harel marked a blackhaired mage as Hawen’s missing First.

Blackwall wouldn’t let me handle the bodies alone, never mind that it was the work of a Keeper, but I let him help me lay them to rest in the shade of a massive tree. I gathered a few articles from each of the elves, so Hawen's clan would have something to mourn them by.

It was so senseless, they had only wanted to reclaim a piece of their history. Our history.

When the work was done, I squeezed Blackwall’s arm in silent thanks, and he trudged back through the woods to find Dorian and Cassandra. For the first time without my Keeper, I performed the Dalish funeral rites before casting the white hot flames of their pyre. It was an unusual spell, never invoked for combat or campfires, and I was grimly pleased that I’d managed it on my own.

I said a prayer to Falon'Din, and it was done.


	11. Wake Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No, I did not watch this scene a thousand times to analyze every damn frame. Why would you think that?

That night I dreamed of Haven.

I was walking along a muddy path with Solas, the sun bright and skies clear, but wind scattering fine snow down from the rooftops. We slipped inside the Chantry alone, our bare feet quite on the stone. He led me to the dungeon, showed me the cell where I’d been prisoner.

“I sat beside you while you slept, studying the Anchor.”

In the frenzied flash of a dream, I was both standing with Solas in the center of the room and also lying in the narrow cell. My right hand was chained to the floor, my left hand in his lap, his brow furrowed as he traced the flickering scar in my palm. A shimmering thread of magic twisted in the space between us, our manas pooling together as he tested me, studied me. A soldier spat at the bars, “Knife-earred bitch.”

Then we were outside again, Solas explaining how he came to join the Inquisition and how he came to stay.

“I watched the rifts expand and grow, resigned myself to flee, and then—“

It wasn’t a memory, but a reliving. Standing at the rift for the first time, when Solas grabbed my hand and I felt the whole world change, shifting into place and making sense after nothing but confusion. I felt the torrent of magic explode from my palm, and the strength in Solas’ grip as he held my hand in place, both of us shaking from the backlash. Then the living memory died and he was standing before me once more, on the path to his little house.

“I felt the whole world change,” he said, echoing my thoughts from a moment before.

I thought back to the despair that dogged my sleep in the Emerald Graves, the anger Solas had shown earlier in the day. Where was all this coming from? No mage steps into the Fade unawares— lucid dreaming is all that keeps any of us from possession, but now I realized that something was amiss.

These weren’t my memories.

Some were, surely, and some mere echoes of the Fade, but other details were too precise to be random and clearly not my own. The soldier who’d cursed me when I’d been unconscious, the look of the Anchor from an impossible angle. I had presumed this Solas to be a composite, fragments of my own memory pieced together in the Fade, but I didn’t have a template for his eyes filled with gentle longing, I didn’t have a frame of reference for the tremor in his voice.

These were the sort of details every mage was trained to look for, the bits that didn’t belong to signal a spirit in our midst. I didn’t know if it were a Desire Demon offering a Solas more perfect than the one I knew or a spirit of need simply conjuring my own personal form of lyrium. Whatever the case, I found that I didn’t particularly care.

It felt so wonderfully real. More than real, as if the Solas I knew were but a mirror’s reflection and this Solas the man himself. Warmth was spreading through my veins, the air felt electric. If for one instant I could _believe_ that the thing we had between us was real? It was worth the price.

This then was how so many mages fell to possession— we didn’t even put up a fight.

I reached for him, winding my hand behind his neck to pull him down, my thumb behind his ear and my mouth crushed against his. Everything about it was wrong, his mouth a hard line, his body unyielding, and his head shaking no, no. Now _this_ was an echo of what I knew, and I was a fool to think I’d even live to see an empty fantasy before it was over.

I pulled back, my right hand instinctively reaching for a staff that wasn’t there.

Then he rushed at me, circling me in his arms, bending me like a reed, forcing my mouth open with his tongue. He was devouring me with hot kisses and greedy hands, stealing my breath, sucking my lip. In the fractured flashes of a dream, it was as if we were making love.

I could feel him move inside me, heat plunging through my core, pushing me to an orgasm as if it were as simple as scratching an itch. He wasn’t real, he wasn’t real, he wasn’t real, but I couldn’t stop. It was blinding white light at the backs of my eyes, a shiver through the heart of me, and electricity on my fingertips when I lost focus of my magic.

I felt how he teetered on the edge of his climax as if it were my own. Creators, it _was_ my own but inverted. A driving rush of pleasure crashing over us both. He bit into my ear and groaned, jerked, pressed me closer, and then suddenly tore away. We were still standing in the snow, the dreamy illusion of anything more fading away, and guilt spreading across his face.

“This isn’t right,” his words were heavy with regret. “Not even here.”

I stumbled back. “…not even here?”

Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods, oh gods. It was _actually_ Solas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The scene with Solas in the Fade is one of my all time favorite moments in Bioware history, and the "wake up" bit at the end is such a perfect gotcha moment for the *player.* But immersion-wise, mage!Lavellan came across as a bit of a dum-dum. Isn't demonic possession a nightly risk for mages? Doesn't Solas directly compliment the clarity of her focus to withstand possession? Doesn't she elsewhere sass Solas that she knows the Fade when she sees it?


	12. Possession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What if Solas hadn't been there when Lavellan woke up? What if she took his advice, that two elven mages must be above suspicion, to heart?

I shot upright in my bedroll, drenched in sweat and still riding the wave of an orgasm. I clamped a hand over my mouth. Had I screamed? The air was humid and thick, muffling the soft _chirrup_ of nugs tumbling through the underbrush. I was in the Emerald Graves.

Panting, I tried to shake free from the confusion. Creators it felt real. Solas felt real, the heat of his skin, the slick— stop!

This had to stop. However it felt, what it was was impossible. Mages cannot dreamwalk, our minds are our own. Whether Circle Trained or Dalish, this was the first tenant of entering the Fade: you have no friends here.

Only spirits can tempt us, or demons. Fear, like ice, crawled across my skin. Cullen once told me that he’d known the Hero of Ferelden from her time in the Circle, that he’d been there the night Kinloch Hold fell, demons tormenting him with the sight of her until he couldn’t recognize the woman when she stood before him. Scores of Harrowed mages, good men and women and elves among them, were given over to possession in their own tower, such was the temptation.

I thought of Varric’s friend Merrill, who heard a spirit in the Fade promise to restore the eluvian. None but a Dalish could understand what it meant that Keeper Marethari paid the price. That’s what it meant to be First; we make our choices freely, but consequences belong to the clan. Among the Dalish, Merrill’s name was Harellan— Traitor to Our Kin. I would die before The People called me such.

I slipped from the blankets and through the camp, headlong into the nearest tent.

“Cassandra?”

She’d drawn a short blade before even fully waking, and I loved her for it. Recognizing my voice, her posture relaxed.

“Inquisitor, I…”

“No, no, keep your knife!”

“Inquisitor?”

“I…I may be possessed.”

She barked a laugh of confusion, “What are you talking about?”

I tried to stop my hands from shaking.

“A spirit came to me in a dream, offering something that I wanted. And,” (here only a lie would do) “I was unable to drive it away.”

Cassandra spoke with measured purpose. “With all due respect to the terms you and Solas prefer, the Chantry does not recognize a difference between spirits and demons.”

“Which is why I’m here, Cassandra.”

Now she did look wary. “And what happened?”

Heat washed over me, and I reminded myself that she would not think to imagine a double meaning to my words.

“It…entered my body, there was a merging."

She adjusted her grip on the knife, and shame replaced the heat I'd felt. Vivienne had been right all along; mages cannot be trusted. I knew I was in the Fade, I recognized that I was not alone, and I let it keep talking. I let myself believe. I accepted the illusion. Creators, I still accepted the illusion as if it were the only truth I'd ever known. But believing in something does not make it real. That night by the veilfire torch, Solas told me that we must be above suspicion. This had to be dealt with.

“I am not a Templar, I cannot drive out a demon. This is beyond my power.”

“But you could kill one.”

She looked sick. “We need Cullen.”

She dressed quickly, then went to my tent so that I could do the same. Without hesitation, she took my staff and cracked it over her knee, the one Blackwall helped me craft. Once dressed, we walked to the edge of camp to find Scout Harding, told her that one of Leliana’s ravens had brought an urgent message, that we were bound for Skyhold. We asked her to tell Dorian that it was some political trifle, he and Blackwall needn't rush after us.

Cassandra kept watch while I saddled my hart, and we led him down to the road on foot. It was still hours before dawn, the world cool and gray.

“Will you drink this, Inquisitor?”

She handed me a small vial, and I knew that it was magebane before it reached my lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Keeper Marethari in DA2, we know there hasn't been a Dreamer/sominari among the Dalish in two hundred years, so I don't think it's a possibility Lavellen would have even (wait for it) dreamed of.
> 
> I just wanted to say thank you to everyone who commented on the last chapter, I totally got The Feels. You're the only reason I keep posting, and I hope you don't want to kill me after this chapter. :/


	13. The Answer to a Need

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And now we can legitimately say that Solas has distracted the Inquisitor from her duties.

It would have been a sight, Cassandra riding a wild hart into Skyhold, the Inquisitor slumped unconscious against her, hands lashed to the pommel. Of course Nightingale's spies preceded us, so when Cassandra took the winding path behind the waterfall and through the dungeon's entrance, Leliana and Cullen were waiting there already.

I woke on my knees in the center of a prison just as I had in Haven, only this time I knew exactly what was happening.

I was unarmed and unarmored, wearing only the loose shift I'd fallen asleep in the night before. I was bound at the wrists and ankles, my rings and amulets gone. I could bear to part with many things, but I prayed that Cassandra had not destroyed the sylvanwood ring of Fen’Harel.

Three of Leliana's operatives stood watch by the door, daggers bare and sworn to silence or death. Josephine had not been called, and I was glad of it.

Cullen looked grim, and I could smell the sharp spice of lyrium on him. He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, steeling himself for what was to come. Regardless of what happened, when this was over he'd have demons enough to consider. 

“Inquisitor,” his voice was steady. “A Holy Smite will drive lesser demons back into the Fade, but those more powerful will fight. In Kirkwall I saw many such abominations."

He'd slain many such abominations.

"If there is no demon, you will be badly injured, and I will beg your forgiveness.”

Come what may, I would not leave this moment to haunt him.

“Commander, this is on my order.”

I looked down, heard the scrape of metal as Cassandra unsheathed her sword, heard Cullen take a calming breath and then— a tidal wave of fire and white hot pain, a ripping and a tearing, and I was skittering across the debris strewn floor and thrown against the wall. For a moment, nothing, like I had no tie to the fade, an instant of tranquility, and then it all came rushing back. Searing, screaming, ragged, blinding, pain.

Much later, I was dimly aware of drowning in a fluffy human bed. I had no physical strength, no mana.

Solas sat beside me on the bed, pressing an elfroot soaked cloth to my forehead. His wore an expression of cold fury dimmed only by concern.

“Lethallin,” his voice was crystalline.

He set the rag aside to stroke his thumb across my brow.

“Lethallin, what has happened?”

“Solas, I…” I could manage no more than a hoarse whisper.

Solas fetched a pot of tea from the fire, and splashed some into a cup. Returning to the bed he took a sip to test it, then slipped a frosted finger into the mug. When it was cool enough to gulp, he held it to my lips and I drank. It was wonderfully bitter, scouring the foul taste from my mouth.

“Try again,” he encouraged.

I took a slow breath to calm myself, but failed to meet his gaze. How could I tell this story without confessing the truth of it? Could I bury it in the abstract until he could find no trace of himself in the telling?

“I dreamed of Haven, as it was before the attack. Peaceful. A spirit appeared, taking the form of emma lath. Of course I knew it wasn't him, my Keeper taught me The People haven’t seen a Dreamwalker in two hundred years, but I didn’t care. I’d had enough of death and dying all around, and I wanted this one thing for myself. So I reached out for him, and he reached out for me.”

Confusion was written across his face, a question forming, and I raced ahead before he could ask anything at all.

“It was bliss, Solas. Peaceful, but somehow I ruined it. The spirit drew away, told me it was wrong. Are not demons a wish gone wrong? Like the mage Anders, bound to a spirit of Justice, what if I pulled an innocent spirit from the fade and corrupted it by my nature? We can't afford another Kirkwall, so I told Cassandra.”

Solas was terrible in his stillness, a fine layer of frost ghosting across his skin the way it sometimes did in battle.

"You were exorcised?"

“Yes,” I whispered, fearful. He would not forgive me if a spirit had been snuffed out over my foolishness.

“I heard your screams. Through the stone, through the great hall, through the very Veil. You did nothing to protect yourself?"

“No, but Cassandra… Never mind, Solas. The choice was mine, and I am sorry if a spirit was harmed because of it.”

“You will tell me. Cassandra what?”

There was no eluding him in this. “…gave me magebane.”

“And you drank it?" He was incredulous, mouth turned down in horror. I felt nothing but knew he'd sent a tendril of magic to test me, the way I'd once brushed his aura in the woods.

"You poisoned your own power so the humans might feel safe? So much for the Seeker’s great faith, I did not think she would allow the torture of an innocent.”

“You said that we had to be above suspicion, Solas. I had to let them handle it in their own way. It had to happen.”

“This did _not_ have to happen.”

Now he took up my left hand to examine the Anchor, saw the bruises and broken skin where I must have writhed against the ropes. Without so much as a “by your leave” he jerked back the covers to find the extent of my injury. A short tunic covered my hips, but angry welts around my bare ankles were all too visible, small scrapes and bruises on my thighs. I remembered the force of the Smite throwing me across the room.

“So fearful of an elven child that Commander Cullen could only face you bound and helpless? Too stupid to recognize the difference between an abomination and a goddess? With that sort of discernment it's no wonder the Templars are tearing themselves apart.”

He was on his feet and actually yelling, thought not at me. Not quite. Hoarfrost was collecting over the tables and chairs, along the banister at the stairs. I’d never seen any mage’s power run wild outside of battle, much less one as composed as Solas. Magic isn’t a plaything, but the answer to a need.

“Solas, stop.”

I didn’t even know where to begin, I thought he would be angry for the spirit’s sake, but he'd taken things somewhere else altogether.

“What are you even saying?”

He took a focusing breath, but could not bring himself to sit. With hands clasped behind his back, he seemed like my hahren once more.

“Are you more concerned that I would call you a child, or a goddess? You are both. It took centuries to reach adulthood in ancient Arlathan, longer still for a their magic to grow. By such standards you but a babe in arms, and yet you wield the heart of a god— the orb. No demon could posses you.”

“How do you know that, Solas?”

He dropped gently on the bed beside me, brought my left hand to rest against his cheek. Even with the smite still aching in my bones, it sent a shock through me. Though he'd taken my hand the moment we met, grabbed my neck that once on the battlefield, and traced his thumb across my ear, I'd never touched him for myself.

He pressed a gentle kiss into my palm. "I am many things, lethallin, but no demon for wishing to possess you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now I'm wondering how everyone else spec'd Solas. He walked around in Ice Armor for half my playthrough....


	14. Each of His Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas comes clean about the nature of their shared dream in the Fade, by which I mean he muddies the waters to hide...well, all the things Solas is always trying to hide.

The world had come to a full stop.

He gripped my hand more tightly, as if I would pull it away. His eyes fixed on mine, gauging my reaction as all the little pieces fell into place. Somewhere along the way I remembered to breathe.

“That is not possible.”

Solas pressed his face back into the palm of my hand, ran his tongue along the Anchor without taking his eyes from mine.

“It is not possible that I should want you?” He bit into the pad at the base of my thumb, “Or that you are somniari?”

It was the only thing he could have said to drive my attention away from the first revelation.

“There are no somniari,” I said by rote. This was a universal fact. If a mage could traipse into another’s dream, the Chantry would have us all Tranquil by now. If it were merely possible but rare, there would be stories, whispers.

Now he pulled my hand down to the bed between us, uncurling my fingers as if to show me the Anchor for the first time. It was still slick where he’d kissed me, and he slid his thumb along my heartline to coax out the muted magic. The Anchor flared in sputters of emerald and veridium, weak but well.

“There are yet somniari in the world, but we are few.”

We. He always knew how to wield this word to catch me in its wake.

He continued massaging my palm, feeding it with his magic since I had none of my own.

“It is with good reason that Corypheus calls it the Anchor, for there’s a magic here that tethers us through the Fade. I could follow the Anchor’s pull to find you anywhere in this world or the next, but in your waking dream you followed it to me instead.”

Then he added softly, “I thought you knew.”

I felt the whole world change, shifting into place and making sense after nothing but confusion: a shimmering thread ran between us, one that couldn’t be cut or broken. None of it had been my imagination, but…

“But why us? Why does it not bind me to Corypheus?” 

It would be years before I understood how carefully he’d chosen each of his words.

“When the Anchor was new, it was unstable, fluctuating with every expansion of the Breach.”

“Killing me.”

“Yes. And I spent a great deal of time by your side, testing you with my magic, trying to keep you alive. It seems the Anchor was yet impressionable, and my magic left its mark.”

“And that’s why—“

“That is why I have kept my distance.”

“Was that _distance_ I felt between us when you bit my ear? I thought it was c—”

A heavy door was opened in the distance and I fell silent at the soft scrape of slippers on the staircase.

“Darling, I heard about what happened.”

Vivienne paused at the top of the stairwell, her disdain clear as she surveyed the Dwarven rugs and Ferelden windowpanes still heavy with frost.

“How dreadful.”

There was no telling if she meant my predicament or my quarters. Solas had withdrawn his hands to the safety of his lap, but I was still quite uncovered from where he’d tossed back the bedsheets. Vivienne appraised the angry welts on my wrists and feet and sundry bruises, and where Dorian would have made a winking joke she leveled her placid eyes on Solas.

“Have you been unable to manage a simple healing spell in all this time, my dear? I daresay it would have done her more good than a blizzard.”

It took no more than an arched eyebrow to cast the spell, bringing healing magic up and around me like a blanket. She sat gingerly on the edge of the bed, avoiding some invisible blight that might stain her gown until she was satisfied that the bruises had resolved.

“Now, my dear. What _are_ we going tell them?”

Solas was having none of it.

“We might start by telling them that a Seeker drugged the Inquisitor and allowed a Templar thug to smite her out of idle curiosity.”

She looked at him as if he were the most preposterous thing in all of Orlais, then turned her gaze on me.

“This is why do not trust him to such a task, and why I am here.”

She curled her fingers toward her palm to examine her manicured nails with great interest.

“Can we not conjure some Dalish rite of passage? A harrowing of sorts? There’s no one here to contradict us.”

“I am here to—“

Vivienne cut Solas off, “—declare she passed with flying colors.”

“Vivienne,” I began. “We don’t need to bury this with intrigue, we’re not in Val Royeaux.”

“No, my darling, sadly we are not. But it is no secret that something dire has happened, I daresay Blackwall has evidenced your broken staff as a sign of foul play. An answer must be given and we cannot allow others to imagine the Inquisitor consorting with demons in the Fade, it’s bad enough she keeps one as a pet. Nor can we suggest that her own advisers feared the possibility enough to follow through with a Holy Smite. As I said, dreadful.”

Now she looked at Solas. “Believe it or not, apostate, I am as displeased as you to have not been consulted. It would have been simple enough to determine her state of mind. This is the very sort of overreach that the rebels would use to keep the Circles disbanded, and none will feel safe if the Inquisitor herself can be falsely accused.”

She glided back to the stairs, one graceful hand alighting the rail. “Now, my dears, put your little heads together and spin some charming elven tale to make this whole mess disappear.”


	15. Unequal Measures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remember the time that Solas tried to pretend a little Fade-Tongue was no biggie? He finds Fade-Sex just a little more difficult to deny.

Solas retreated from Vivienne behind his hermit mask, and he was not quick to let it drop when she left. There were so many loose threads hanging between us, I didn’t know which I could use to patch things up and which would unravel us altogether. I tried to appeal to the warmth that had been between us.

“You bit my ear.”

He laughed, startled, smiling despite himself.

“I apologize. What happened was impulsive and ill considered, and I should not have encouraged it.”

As simple as that, he was an impenetrable fortress once more, cool and collected. I reached for his cheek, which he’d let me touch only a moment before, but he pulled away.

“I am not certain this is the best idea.”

“I’m willing to take that chance.”

“Can you not see that is _exactly_ the problem? Despite all my experience in the Fade, I did not realize we were on unequal footing. My desire eclipsed my reason, and Cullen very nearly killed you for it. For _my_ mistake.”

The memory of the smite felt too fresh to dismiss entirely, but he couldn’t shoulder the whole thing alone.

“I knew it was you, Solas, even when I woke up. It seemed like the greatest truth I’d ever known, but I let fear have the better of me.”

“And I am the one who put you in that position.”

“Then perhaps we should try a different position,” I tried to warm him with a smile.

“Do not diminish what happened with a joke.”

Here he was acting the hahren once more, wanting me to be an angry da’len so that I'd lash out and give him further excuse to withdraw. He’d confessed in no uncertain terms that he wanted me, so I would not let him drive me away as easily as he had in the hot spring.

“You are the one diminishing what happened, Solas. Do you expect me to forget what we shared? Do you imagine that for me it was some moment of passion to be discarded after a moment of pain? I’d take an equal measure of both to be at your side.”

A shadow crossed his features, the first hint of whatever awful burden he carried.

“I cannot even promise you an equal measure, lethallin.”

This time he didn't pull away when I reached for him, and I took his hand in my own. I wondered if he’d lost a lover in the Blight, if he’d ever taken a wife, if she’d died in childbirth, if she’d been raped by shemlen, if she’d been killed by highwaymen, something! He must have lived through something terrible to say such a thing.

“I don’t recall asking you to promise me anything, Solas.”

It was my turn to press a kiss into his palm, and though he once told me not to push him again, I did exactly that. I slid my tongue around the base of his index finger, drew it into my mouth. I gave him one, long, hard suck and felt the wall he’d built around us crumble.

“Now you are the one making promises.”

When I caught a second finger in my mouth, he laughed and gently reclaimed his hand. Solas kissed my forehead, pushing me back into the nest of pillows and blankets. He laid his hand flat on my chest to hold me down, and bent to whisper in my ear, his voice low.

“You should be very careful what you promise me, lethallin.”

His lips were close enough that I felt the shape of every word. My heart twisted beneath his hand, heat shot between my legs. Instead of whatever I had hoped for next, he pulled away to sit beside me.

“But for now I must insist that you rest, time in the Fade will help restore your mana. I have promised to translate an elven text for Danga, but I will remain at your side until you slumber.”

Despite Vivienne’s best effort and then this last rush of excitement, I was fighting exhaustion with every breath. Simply pausing to acknowledge it brought the weight of the day crashing down upon me. I settled into my fluffy human bed, marveling that Solas was in it with me, stroking my hair as he had once done in secret.

Without any mana, I entered the dark and dreamless sleep of a dwarf. There was no telling how long I slept or when Solas departed, though I was not alone when I awoke. The clink of silver told me that Josephine was setting our little table by the fire, and the smell of roasted beef bones and tomatoes helped to rouse me.

The balcony doors had been pulled shut and the sky was dark, but clustered candles kept even the corners of the room warm and bright. Josephine smiled her hello, ducking her head in an informal bow.

“Pardon the intrusion, Inquisitor. I hope I have not presumed too much in continuing our tradition. Leliana says that you have been unwell, and I thought you might appreciate a simple repast.”

It wasn’t a diplomatic turn of phrase, Josephine had been told nothing.

“I am delighted, Lady Josephine, though you will have to pardon my undress.”

She gestured to my wardrobe.

“If I may?”

I nodded and she removed the slender pin that held the heavy oak doors, letting them fall open. After a moment of deliberation (ah, what shade of turquoise should an Inquisitor wear to dinner after a Holy Smite?) she pulled a lustrous cotton robe from the wardrobe and met me by the bedside. I shrugged it on and stood to my feet, only to have the world swim around me. I hadn’t even realized that I’d started to fall until she caught me around the waist and I’d thrown an arm around her shoulder.

“Are you quite alright?”

“A little weak, but thank you.”

She helped me to the table, laid with a tureen of soup, a basket of crusty bread, and a dish of fresh butter. The Creators must have loved the shemlens a little to gift them and not us with bread and butter.

Josephine brought me up to speed on our latest intelligence regarding the missing Grey Wardens and what little we knew of the trouble in Crestwood. My palm physically itched to close the rifts there, hungry for new magic to replace what I had lost.

“I’m eager to see the rifts in Crestwood closed; the Wardens can at least fight for themselves. Farmers cannot deal with demons alone, and should the remains of their harvest be lost we may lose the entire region to famine.”

“I agree with your priorities, but perhaps I might persuade the Arl of Redcliffe to send his soldiers in your stead. If you don’t mind my saying so, Inquisitor, you do not seem in fighting shape.”

I could see now that Vivienne was right; some explanation would be required, and it certainly couldn’t be the truth. I did not want to mock the Creators in an outright lie, but I could think of a few unusual, if superstitious, practices that might warrant my behavior even to a Dalish.

“I am not ill, Lady Josephine. While in the Emerald Graves, I performed the last rites for a Dalish First killed in forest and used my staff to light his pyre. I became dar’alas, you would say…ritually unclean? So I broke my staff as an offering to Falon’Din, and drained my mana so that Fen’Harel would not catch my scent. I regret that my duties as a First have caused alarm for the Inquisition.”

“Oh! I, pardon me, Inquisitor, I have never heard you speak so freely of your faith.”

I smiled, at least this much was true. “Unlike Andraste, the Creators require no converts; I have little need to speak of them.”

She paused, a spoonful of soup halfway to her lips.

“Have they been appeased by your sacrifice?”

Another question I could answer in good faith, “Falon’Din is a Friend of the Dead; I’ve no doubt he accepted my offering at the pyre.” 

Not that he gave a wit for my staff. I tore a chunk of bread from the loaf, spreading the butter with a little knife as Josephine had taught me. She surprised me with another question.

“And the other one?”

I laughed around my mouthful of bread, held up a napkin and she nodded her approval that I’d remembered to do so.

“I fear not. Fen’Harel is the Dread Wolf, the Betrayer. He is never satisfied, so the Dalish do not sacrifice to him but take measures to avoid his notice.”

“Ah, then I pray that this Fen'Harel did not, in fact, catch your scent.”

“You sound positively Dalish, Lady Josephine.”

She raised her glass in a small toast, and I was relieved to move on. It felt sacrilegious to invoke Fen’Harel in my own trickery, and I was conscious of my missing sylvanwood ring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really want to stick with canon here, that there's a lull in their relationship between the first and second kiss, and for Solas to have some genuine "considerations" weighing on him in the meantime.
> 
> A hundred thousand hugs and fade-kisses to everyone who's been commenting and kudo'ing, it's such an inspiration for me to keep writing, thank you thank you.


	16. Festis Bei Umo Canavarum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric introduces the Inquisitor to a friend...

I never thought I would see a blood mage standing in the open, walking the battlements of Skyhold. Varric had all too conveniently managed to omit this particular detail from his _Tale of the Champion_. She’d scars up and down her arm, carved in the pattern of ancient runes, and I didn’t need to see a smudge of blood across the bridge of her nose to know that she’d worked her magic recently. The air was thick with it, unseen glyphs and wards humming to her will.

Not that it bothered me in the slightest; Marian Hawke’s allegiance was not in question— she was a known messenger of Asha'bellanar.

“Andaran atishan,” I greeted her.

She cocked one hand on her hip.

“Well, I suppose I couldn’t be Varric’s favorite apostate forever.”

“Aw, Hawke, you’re still my favorite _human_ apostate.”

“Just doesn’t have the same ring to it.”

“Well, it looks like you’re still somebody’s favorite," he coughed, "I thought you were coming alone.”

Varric nodded to the silver haired elf leaning against the crenelations behind her. He had one bare foot flat against the stone wall, a relaxed posture that belied the fact he was clearly coiled for a fight. Drained as I was from the smite, the lyrium in his skin called out to me, and I tried to keep my eyes from following the swirling curls of it.

“Yes, well, Fenris gets grumpy when I run off without him in the middle of the night.”

“To say the least. The last time I was fool enough to allow Hawke from my sight, her brother was conscripted to the Wardens and you discovered red lyrium.”

Little Wolf, indeed. There was an edge of resigned humor to the jab, but it was sharp enough to cut. His voice was unexpectedly deep, elegance and violence twined together in the most alluring way.

Wardens and red lyrium turned our conversation to the matters at hand, and we talked at length about what we’d seen with the Red Templars, as well as Corypheus and the missing Wardens. As it turned out, Hawke had a lead in Crestwood, making it all the more imperative for us to set out. I’d have to discuss the logistics with Leliana, but it seemed like the closest thing to a plan we’d had in some time. I glanced at Varric, unsure as to whether we should offer them quarters or whether they'd disappear lest Cassandra find them first, but Hawke interrupted my thoughts. 

“I know we’ve only just met,” she said with a grin, “but would it be alright if we held hands?”

She was looking to the Anchor, her curiosity clear.

“C’mon, Elf, let’s give the girls some time to…do some magical shit. Think you could stand to lose a round of Diamondback or two?”

Fenris cast his eyes around the battlements as if still expecting a trap, then turned to Hawke. He was clearly loathe to leave her, his mouth just this side of a snarl. Something wordless passed between them, and his regal features softened.

“You can try, Dwarf,” he relented.

“We won’t summon any demons while you’re gone, Fenris, I promise,” her voice was blithe.

When the two had gone, Hawke stepped closer and I held my left hand between us. The Anchor flared to life, though I was disappointed to see it still so weak. If it came to a magical showdown, Hawke would enjoy an easy victory— my mana had only begun to repool.

“Can you keep a secret?” I asked.

“Apostate’s honor,” she held up three fingers in a salute I didn’t recognize.

“A Templar smited me yesterday,” I managed a wan smile, “My magic hasn't fully returned.”

She winced, “I’ll bear that in mind.”

Hawke took my hand in hers, sent a pulse of magic out to test it.

“It’s elven,” she marveled.

“So I’m told.”

“How does it work? When we crossed the Waking Sea, I saw a Rift on the Storm Coast. Demons just spilling out for hours. Fenris and I had our fun, but I couldn’t do a damn thing about it.”

It reminded me of how precious the Anchor really was. I'd be entirely defenseless against a Rift without it, another charred corpse on the top of a mountain. 

“It’s like trying to join two magnets by the wrong ends, a violent push and pull. After a time, the force of it seems to flip the rift, turning it inside out, or perhaps Fade side in.”

“You can use it to mend the veil, but can you tear it as well?”

It was a question I'd never even thought to ask. I'd only torn the veil by accident, flailing in the dark and lost from the others after the attack on Haven. I would not have expected a mage without Circle or clan training to have such intuition, but then again, Hawke was hardly "a mage." I wondered how the Inquisition would have fared if she had been at the conclave as Cassandra had so desperately wanted.

“Normally, yes, but after yesterday it's little more than a nightlight.”

“Can _you_ keep a secret?” she had a downright devious look in her eye.

I inclined my head, curious. Then, quick as a wink, she drew out a small dagger and sliced her palm wide open. The blood sprang up, bright and red, and it pooled in her hand without spilling. It was an outrageous thing to do in broad daylight, and then I realized her wards must be shielding the tower from sight, letting eyes slide over us as if no one were here at all. So then it was also a test, to see where I stood on the matter instead of waiting until the heat of battle.

“I…I’ve never done this before.”

“I’ll be gentle,” she winked. "Just ignore the whispers."

She’d brokered peace with the Dalish after Marethari’s death, and fought for The People on Sundermount. If one were to dabble in blood magic, I suppose there could be no better guide. I touched her aura and felt the blood _sing_. It was like plunging into a river, an intoxicating torrent of mana. There were whispers, the same as when I cast frost runes, but darker. Seductive.

Creators, it would be lovely to listen. I clenched my teeth and pushed passed the voices to the raw energy underneath, and suddenly the blood in her palm was a fine mist hanging in the air.

When I felt steady, I closed my fist and called on the void. Her blood seemed to vaporize, then a dark point of energy blossomed in the air, a sound like lightning cracking over the boom of a gaatlok cannon. Ropes of green magic whipped from the core, lashing around in search of something to shred.

“Andraste’s flaming panties.”

Solas called it the Mark of the Rift, a hole punched into the Fade. That it had nothing to devour left me feeling sour and empty; another thing I’d been meaning to talk to Solas about. How the mark seemed to have its own desires and satisfactions, how I had come to think of them as my own. There would be time enough for that, however. We’d be setting out for Crestwood in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is no universe in which my F!Hawke would have left Fenris to fight Corypheus. She is brave enough to understand that dying without him would be no gift. And hell yeah, she was a blood mage. It was part of what made their relationship so difficult to navigate, and so satisfying. It was also a friendly romance, because she understood that an escaped slave didn't need mage-rights shit shoved down his throat. Oh, maker, I loved those two.


	17. Dirth Ma, Harellen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lavellan tries to sort herself out after the events of Here Lies the Abyss.

I couldn’t stop thinking about Stroud.

Soldiers had died on my orders before, had died the first day Cassandra hauled me out of prison and forced me to decide whether or not we’d take the mountain pass, the day we stormed Redcliffe Castle, the day we closed the Breach. But looking a man in the eye and asking him to die for me in the Fade?

That was something else entirely.

I told myself I chose Stroud because it was a Warden mess and a Warden should clean it up, but that wasn’t true. In the heat of the moment, I thought of Hawke’s lover. Varric had told me that he’d left her once, and that she’d spent three years waiting for him to return. I imagined her Little Wolf, waiting the rest of his life and knowing his Hawke would _never_ return.

Would I have even cared if he had not been an elf?

It was a shite way for the Inquisitor to make a decision. If Stroud were alive, the Wardens would have the leadership needed to regroup. If Stroud were alive, the only warden to uncovered Clarel’s treachery would be rewarded for his vigilance. If Stroud were alive, the Wardens wouldn’t be huddled in shame on my very doorstep.

Another point of contention, that.

It was, to my reckoning, the first time I had defied Solas in a decision for the Inquisition, and in mocking my initiative he’d taken to calling me Inquisitor instead of lethallin. As much as I seemed to crave his approval in all things, I could not agree with him on this matter; the Wardens responsible for the chaos were dead.

Those who remained were guilty of nothing more than fierce loyalty to the order. They’d been betrayed by those trusted to lead, and I feared in banishment they would become enemies of the Inquisition once more. Solas offered no reasons to justify their exile, only anger. He wanted them punished for their hubris, as if death and nightmares and regret and the calling weren’t punishment enough. As if I were offering them husbands and wives and long lives filled with fat children instead of bloodshed and battle.

I also kept thinking of that night at the veilfire torch, when Solas told me the humans would blame us when they learned that the orb was elven. The more ruthless and unforgiving I made the Inquisition, the less forgiving Thedas would be in return. If a Dalish exiled the Grey Wardens from Orlais, the clans could expect a swift reprisal if the tide ever turned against me. I wouldn’t put my people in that position.

After Adamant, I’d taken to wandering the battlements at night. Our experience with Nightmare’s Aspect haunted me still, and demons in the Fade were all too quick to seize upon my weakness. Sleep was a torture, and yet what the Nightmare told me was the least problematic (“Poor child,” it laughed, “Fen’Harel has caught your scent, and he will steal your every joy.” It was as trite a Dalish curse as I’d ever heard, my own grandmother swore with more heat). Instead, it was the poison Nightmare dripped to Solas that I couldn’t forget.

 _Dirth ma, harellen. Ma banal enasalin. Mar solas ena mar din._

The words were under my skin and festering, a wickedly clever riddle cobbled together from transitive verbs with unspoken objects, pronouns that pointed to no one, and homophones with endlessly meaning. I knew that by speaking in elven Nightmare meant to pique my curiosity, and I was ashamed how easily it worked; only a Dalish could appreciate the weight of a word like harellen— truly, the rest were of no import.

I wondered if it could explain the darkness just below the surface, if it were the reason for the anger and unforgiveness Solas harbored against the Dalish, the reason he’d coax me with one breath and push me away with the next. Had he betrayed someone before, did he dream of betraying me now? Was Nightmare preying on his potential to do so, or merely my potential to wonder?

I told myself it didn’t matter; whether he’d done something to earn the title harellen or not, I was unbound by time. I’d seen Solas die for me in a world gone mad, and I would not let a demon tarnish that memory. A shimmering thread ran between us, one that couldn’t be cut or broken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still reeling from the maaassssive disapproval Solas laid on me after keeping the Wardens, ugghhh.


	18. Binding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cole's personal quest: the all time greatest lost flirting moment with Solas in all of Inquisition.

However badly I processed the events at Adamant, it was Cole who was coming undone. He’d been beside himself for days, and there was no contenting him. He’d spent the night with me on several occasions, perched on the headboard and whispering frantic prayers or poems that startled me awake.

“Cole, sweet Cole, please rest,” I begged him.

I’d tug him down into the fluffy human bed, cuddling him against me as I’d done for my brothers and sisters. Sometimes he was a squirmy puppy who wouldn’t be held, ghosting back and forth between the loft and the balcony, utterly inconsolable. Other times he’d huddle under the blankets with me, letting me kiss his forehead a time or two while I petted his matted blond hair.

I thought of summers along the Minanter delta, the year I’d learned to swim, everything happy splashes and sunshine and chasing halla in the muddy shoals. I thought of hunting in the woods at Haven with Solas, the quiet crunch of snow and the peaceful solitude. I thought of attending my older sister’s childbirth, holding her hand while she screamed and pushed a new life into the world.

For an hour, Cole slept— or simply laid quiet, whatever it is spirits do. And then he’d remember Adamant, or stumble upon an unhappy memory of mine, and fly up from the bed. He was wailing and shaking and pacing, fishing up old memories to throw in my face, then begging me to protect him and angry that I wouldn’t do blood magic for him as I had with Hawke. It was entirely unintelligible.

I slipped down the stairs and through the great hall, into the room where Solas lived and breathed. We hadn’t spoken much since the business about the Wardens, he was still angry, but Cole needed him. I sat on the pallet where he’d made his bed, afraid to wake him. He was somewhere in the Fade and likely quite busy, but I didn’t know how to seek him out to wake him from the inside.

I touched his shoulder, “Solas?”

He didn’t flinch, so I shook him gently by the shoulders. His eyes were flickering beneath their lids, tracing spirits across the fade. I cupped his face in my hand, rubbed his cheek with my thumb.

“Solas?”

A muscle twitched along his jaw, and I knew he was fighting to the surface. I bent down to him, whispering in his ear so as not to rouse the whole tower.

“Hahren, please wake up, something’s terribly wrong with Cole. I need you.”

He reached for me, one hand warm on my neck and sleepy eyes lingering where my tunic billowed open above him. He had a soft, unguarded look as he woke.

"Lethallin," he whispered, as if he hadn’t been angry with me for days, as if this thing between us weren’t smothered and buried and half-forgotten.

“Where is Cole?” he asked.

I couldn’t help but take him by the hand, leading him to my chambers where we found Cole pacing frantically along the balcony rail. I wrapped myself in a blanket and curled up on the settee by the stairs, Solas could handle things from here. I had no skill beyond babying Cole like a little brother, but Solas could reach out to him in a more spiritual way.

They argued out on the balcony for a while, and I hadn’t realized that I’d drifted off to sleep until Cole was shouting again.

“It isn’t abuse if I ask!”

“Not always true,” Solas was stern, calm.

I blinked, trying to orient myself to the conversation, when Cole materialized beside me, tugging on the hem of my tunic and pleading.

“He won’t bind me! He’s a mage and he likes demons, but he won’t help. You played blood mage with the Hawke, you ate from the palm of her hand, but you won’t help me! Why won’t you help _me_?”

I was not awake enough to deal with this. Solas turned toward me, his expression incredulous. Creators.

I tried to focus on the issue at hand. “Cole, why would you want either of us to bind you?”

“So I’m safe, if you won’t do the ritual to bind me someone else could, will. Like the warden mages, and then I’m not me anymore. Walls around what I want, blocking, bleeding making me a monster.”

“A mage using blood magic could conceivably do that to anyone of us, human or demon.”

“You should ask Solas to bind you too, he thinks of it all the time. Binding, begging, breaking, but he doesn’t think of me.”

Now it was my turn for an incredulous stare, and Solas unabashedly held my gaze a moment before turning back to Cole.

"Cole, we will solve this. I know of a Rivaini amulet that may be of some use, though we will need time to find it. Until then, you must stay calm; no good can come of your panic."

Cole seemed to shrink in on himself in relief, at last something had appeased him.


	19. Faith, Not Revenge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Awkward family road trip with Lavellan, Solas, Varric and Cole.

The journey to Redcliffe was…awkward to say the least.

Varric stumbled in when we tried to activate the amulet for Cole, then insisted on chaperoning us into town as if he might change Solas’ mind en route. While they debated, Cole murmured to himself without ceasing, a steady stream of worries and fears that wore at us along the way. I walked alongside him, tried taking his hand in mine, but he was too agitated to stand the touch. He melted a few paces away, chanting _closer, closer, so close_ softy to himself.

With the Crossroads and prying ears behind us, Varric turned his charm on me. For all the goodwill between us, he was sorely mistaken if he thought a Dalish mage would take a dwarf’s advice on matters of the fade. It’s not that I didn’t value his opinion, but I wouldn’t presume to advise him on how he should handle Bianca.

He’d shrugged off his duster and slung it over his shoulder, enjoying the day’s unseasonable warmth.

“Don’t you think it’s important that Cole chose to be a person? If he wanted to be more like a spirit, he wouldn’t have left the fade. Shouldn’t we at least have the decency to respect his decision?”

I didn’t even have a chance to reply before Solas chimed in.

“Tell me, child of the stone, did you know that the Champion practiced blood magic with Lavellan? Does that mean we should respect the Inquisitor’s choice to open a vein in battle? That worked out so well for the last Dalish mage you befriended.”

“Shit, Chuckles.” His expression went dark. Varric didn’t often turn serious, but when he did he managed Dead Serious better than anyone.

“Don't make me your straw man. I’ve never _once_ cut myself.”

“Tell me you didn’t consume the mana in Hawke’s blood.”

“We’re talking about Cole, Solas, not me.”

“There is no reason we cannot discuss both, Inquisitor, I think all here are interested.”

“Oh, boy."

“I did, but—“

“Then you’ve already taken the most difficult step,” Solas sounded smug.

“Maker’s breath, Boots, isn’t that what lyrium’s for?”

“Yes, well,” I turned to Varric but aimed my words at Solas, “lyrium requires a mage to have some mana to begin with, which is a little tricky to manage after a smite. Or perhaps Solas would have preferred that I skulk through Crestwood without a spell to my name.”

“Wait, wha—?”

But Solas was back in the fray, “What I would _prefer_ is for the Inquisitor to focus on her duties, not her desires.”

“Oh, is that a topic up for discussion now? Because I’ve been meaning to ask about this whole binding—”

“ _You killed me!_ ”

Just up the road, Cole was about to slit a man’s throat.

“You forgot. You locked me in the dungeon in the Spire, and you forgot, and I died in the dark.”

My stomach lurched. Creators, this was how he was pulled from the fade? Cole was yelling, hatred and anger contorting his voice as I’d never heard before. It was everything I could do not to immolate the man where he stood. Solas sprinted ahead, all else forgotten.

“Cole, stop.”

The man took his chance and scrambled to his feet, tripping over himself as he ran. Cole stalked after the man, raving mad, but Varric cut him off. I killed people all the time. I even sat by while my friends killed people for fun, it was a favorite pastime for Sera. I’d seen Cole slip a knife between the ribs of men and women alike, showing no more emotion than a firm but good-natured, “Goodbye!” I’d never heard anything like this.

There was no doubt in my mind that the man was guilty, but something was different.

Cole was different, like he’d run out of compassion and could only come up with hate. His story spilled out, about the first Cole, and there was no sense in even pretending that I wouldn’t cry. It was awful. It was everything I hated about the shemlen Circles and Templars, the unending cruelty they heaped on free mages. Apostates, as they called us. Cole’s voice turned hard, and he spoke of a need for killing.

He'd never needed that before. Killing had always been incidental to Cole, collateral along the road to helping.

I remembered what Solas told me, that a demon was a wish gone wrong, and for a moment the hatred in Cole's voice was so sharp I thought he’d grow into a shade before our eyes. But he remained, reedy and thin and starting down the path after the escaped Templar.

I looked to Solas, didn’t have to say the words. He followed after Cole while Varric and I remained in an uncomfortable silence. He was seething. I knelt in the grass, scratching a little ward into the dirt, a simple rune I’d learned as a child.

“So let me get this straight, Boots. You’re down with blood magic, but not a little old fashion revenge? Makes sense to me.”

“Knife-eared bitches are a copper a dozen, what I do isn't important. Thedas has enough vengeful humans, would you truly sacrifice the light in Cole to give it one more?"

He gave me a weary smile, put a hand on my shoulder.

“Maybe letting the kid grow wouldn't have snuffed anything out. Maybe it would've been a puff of air to fan the flames so he could burn brighter. Or maybe I'm a nug's uncle. But at least I know why you keep losing at Wicked Grace. You don't know the value of your own hand."

He ambled off toward the Crossroads, and I didn't follow after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't like being on Varric's bad side, but I let him have the red lyrium in DA2, so I was a little scared that shit would get real dark real quick if I'd let him help Cole be more human.


	20. Shake the Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas has a favor to ask the Inquisitor.

In what seemed like non-stop commotion since Hawke’s visit, I had barely spoken to Cassandra much less found an opportunity to ask her about my sylvanwood ring. In truth, I’d given up on recovering it after the smite; Cassandra would have returned it by now if she had the power to do so. Yet I held out some small hope that to her it was such a trifling elven thing that it slipped her notice. 

Perhaps she’d tucked it into a pocket or drawer somewhere.

I thought I might find her in the bailey practicing footwork with Loranil. The Dalish had warriors, but none like Cassandra, and so he often joined her to pick up new techniques. The rest of his clan had finally come to Skyhold, and while Hawen had begun casting spelled glass for the windows, Ithiren had shorn his halla. I’d sent some of Cullen’s men off to Jader for a loom, and soon enough true Dalish banners would hang in the great hall.

Today, I found Cassandra alone, landing blows on a straw dummy.

“Where’s your elven apprentice, Seeker?”

She lodged her sword into the dummy's neck, then swept out her arm to point toward a section of our crumbling battlements.

“He is with the others today, repairing the tower wall.”

“Joining stones without mortar is a specialty of the Dalish,” I told her. “Quick work too, we can’t afford to invest much time in our camps, but their protection is essential.”

“If that is the case, perhaps you might convince them to move their work indoors.”

“Hallway to the war table?”

“One of these days, a clumsy servant will stumble right out of the keep.”

I laughed, but she was right. The hallway was still cluttered with debris, and a small pile of rubble was all that stood between the walls of Skyhold and a hundred foot drop.

“Speaking of my Dalish eccentricities, I wanted to ask you about a ring of mine. I was wearing it before…” I trailed off, but she followed my meaning. “Anyhow, it’s not important really, but I thought perhaps you might still have it.”

Cassandra tossed her practice sword aside, walked a little closer, consternation on her face.

“Solas did not give it to you?”

“What?”

“Dagna examined your effects, destroyed anything enchanted just to be safe. But she said the ring held no magic, so I gave it to Solas. I thought you might prefer it in the keeping of another elf, and I did not think it would slip his mind.”

I did not think so either; I pinched the bridge of my nose.

“Inquisitor, I apologize. I should have seen to this matter myself.”

“No, no, Cassandra. It’s quite alright, I’ll speak to Solas. He has been rather preoccupied as of late. Thank you.”

I turned to leave, but she caught my elbow.

“We haven’t talked about, about before. I wanted to thank you. None would have ever suspected, and yet you told us anyway. I pray the Maker will grant me that same courage should I ever doubt myself.”

It caught me off guard, and for a moment I had no reply. The whole mess was entirely the fault of my own doubt, not courage, and I knew now it was nothing to be proud of. Yet to Cassandra, I truly faced a demon and put my life in her hands. She would not forget it. The silence stretched another heartbeat, and she gave me a little bow.

“I will say no more of it. But if you are able, have a word with Cullen. It troubles him still.”

I nodded to her, dread already building up in me.

“Thank you, Cassandra, I’ll do that.”

I wasn’t ready to be alone with Cullen, even flanked by Josephine and Leliana at the war table, the sight of him brought a rising panic in my chest. Just knowing the true extent of his power. I could close rifts, fight Corypheus, and call on the void itself, but a Templar could strip it all away with a gesture. It was no wonder the rebel mages fought as they did.

I pushed it aside. I did not want Cullen to dwell on this, but for now I could not face it myself. Instead, I had the curious task of retrieving my ring from Solas. He had little regard for Dalish custom, even less for Dalish religion; while I believed he’d relish an opportunity to correct the error of my superstitious ways, I hadn’t imagined he’d go so far as to withhold something that belonged to me. 

As expected, Solas was in his study, huddled in a chair that would have been oversized even for a human. He looked pallid and miserable; dark under-eye circles exaggerating his years. It was something of a shock; yesterday had been a triumph. Solas had given Cole peace, pushing him closer to the spiritual ideal of compassion. What had changed in so short a time? He sipped from a hammered tin mug, grimacing.

“Something wrong with your tea?”

“It is tea, I detest the stuff,” he snapped. “But this morning I need to shake the dreams from my mind. I may also need a favor.”

Another surprise for the day; Solas was not a man to call in favors. The ring could wait.

“You just have to ask.”

He jumped to his feet, began pacing.

“One of my oldest friends has been captured by mages, forced into slavery. I heard the cry for help as I slept.”

Fenedhis, no wonder he looked so awful. There could be no peace waking up to that sort of burden. Yet somewhere, in my most irrational depths, jealousy pinched at me. Solas visited others in the Fade, but not me. Not since…

“A summoning circle, then?”

“Yes, most likely.”

“Iron Bull and Blackwall, I think. You and I have enough magic to manage the disruption, but it will take brute force to upturn the stones.”

His eyes narrowed, “You’ve done this before.”

“I’ve broken a summing circle before, yes. But thank you for implying that I’ve bound spirits to my will.” I kept my tone light, I wasn’t angry that a man like Solas would worry. “When you spend your life roaming the Free Marches, you’re bound to stumble on an apostate or two doing something naughty.”

“I apologize, I should not have—”

“It’s alright, Solas. I would be blind with anger if something like this should happen to a friend. We’ll go at once.”

He closed the distance between us, and my heart stopped. In an instant, his hands grazed around my waist and he held me close enough that I could feel his wolf bone amulet pressing into the fabric between my breasts. He bent to touch his forehead to mine— the Dalish equivalent of a hug. I hesitated a moment, then let my hands come to rest on his hips.

“Thank you,” he breathed.

There was an energy between us no less potent than when we had embraced in the fade, and the Anchor flared in response. It lasted only a second, but time seemed to stretch the way it often did in a focused battle. I let myself revel in the warmth of his breath on my face, the sweet smell of dawn lotus and embrium, and the hum of his aura coming so close to my own. I pulled away, lest he think I would re-purpose his grief for myself.

"We'll leave at once."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For all that he loves frilly cakes, fine wine, and the trappings of court, I'll never understand how Solas can be opposed to a beverage as sophisticated as tea. ^^


	21. Word of Advice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's interesting to truly consider that Solas called the Spirit of Wisdom his oldest friend, and that his romance with Lavellan kicks off almost immediately after the spirit's death. I wonder if Wisdom had counseled Solas to keep his distance, and that without its influence (with wisdom literally gone) he has nothing left to hold him back from the Inquisitor.

We made good time en route to the Exalted Plains, arriving at the former Dalish campsite by mid-afternoon. The sky was overcast but bright with diffused grey light that seemed to emanate from everywhere at once. Not knowing what to expect up ahead where Solas could sense his friend, we paused to unload our excess gear in the small cave that once sheltered Ithiren’s halla.

“So we just find these dumbass mages and smash up their rocks?”

Iron Bull slung his pack against the wall of the cave and let it slide to the floor as he adjusted his shoulder strap.

“More or less. Solas and I will have to neutralize whatever elemental magics they’ve used in the binding, but between the two of us it should be quick work. The spirit may be disoriented once it’s free, so the three of us will stand guard while Solas follows his friend back into the fade to be sure that it’s safe.”

“You’re not gonna go in there with him?”

I was certain Bull meant nothing by it, his innuendos were never subtle, but I flushed hot at the idea anyway. I'd give anything to join Solas in the fade, and felt glad for the biting cold wind that had already reddened my cheeks and ears.

“No. He’ll need an active barrier around him, and I’d rather not trust that to reflex. I also imagine the spirit will have had its fill of unfamiliar mages; it’s best if Solas goes alone.”

We’d talked it through already, before the spirit’s radiant anxiety had crept under Solas’ skin and driven him to silence. Now he was standing at the edge of a little brook that fed into the Enavuris, nearly beside himself with worry. I went to stand at his side and he looked down at me, drew his mouth into a hard line. He was ready.

“Let’s get to it then,” Blackwall clapped Solas on the shoulder and gave him a nod in solidarity.

We crossed the creek at its shallowest point, then followed a well-worn path through the grassy terrain. In time, we came to a clearing and where a massive Pride Demon writhed in the bounds of a summoning circle.

For one heart stopping moment, I misunderstood. Memories of the Nightmare calling Solas harellan surfaced momentarily, the thought crossed my mind that _this_ was his friend. Then Solas saw it too, and his gut wrenching gasp destroyed my doubts. He clenched his teeth and ground out a frustrated growl that was nothing short of feral.

Blackwall caught my eye, tilting his head almost imperceptibly to ask: shall I take it down? I frowned, shook my head no. Iron Bull wore a half cocked grin that told me however much he wanted to slay a demon, he’d wait for my lead. I palmed my staff.

“Solas, what are our options?”

For once, he was at a loss, scrubbing his hands over his eyes to clear his thoughts and whispering to himself in a panic.

“What did they do? What did they do? What did they do?”

At that precise moment, the most pompously absurd shemlen walked into view.

“Mages?” he sounded positively delighted to see us. “You’re not with the bandits?”

This was unexpected. We’d prepared for another Adamant, corrupt mages binding demons to build an army or Tevinters stripping esoteric knowledge from spirits by force. But an overgrown child so oblivious and entitled that he actually thought we’d start lavishing him with lyrium, no questions asked? It was absurd.

Solas laid out his grievances, and the mage had the audacity to condescend in reply.

“I understand how it might be confusing to someone who has not studied demons, but after you help us, I can…”

I knew then that he’d never shovel another bowl of porridge into his lazy mouth. Solas could no more let him live than I could allow a fade rift to remain open and festering. I tried not to use the term often, but he was everything the Dalish hated about shem. Even worse, he was the sort of mage that gave Qunari reason to stitch our mouths shut, that made Tranquility seem reasonable, that made Templars callous enough to let a child like Cole starve to death.

I spat at his feet. “Word of advice? I’d hold off on explaining how demons work to my friend here.”

“Listen to me! I was one of the foremost experts in the Kirkwall Circle—”

Iron Bull snorted. “That’s not a high point on anyone’s resume, kid.”

It was also a patent lie. For all that I hated the Circles, a Harrowing guaranteed competence. Besides, no mage who survived Kirkwall would be so quick to summon a demon to his aid. Not after Orsino.

Solas silenced the man, growing beautiful in his rage. Anger sharpened his features, brightened his eyes, colored his cheeks as he spelled out full extent of the mage's treachery in corrupting a spirit of wisdom.

“The summoning circle. We break it, we break the binding. No orders to kill, no conflict with its nature, no demon.”

The authority in his voice demanded submission, and the mage wilted before us. I can’t say it didn’t have a similar effect on me; there was nothing I would not do for Solas in that moment. So then my stomach dropped when he turned to me, his expression pleading.

“Inquisitor, please.”

The shemlen title maintained propriety, but he was appealing to me as _lethallin_. This was Solas begging. Me. As if I were not already completely bent to his will.

“We'll save your friend, Solas.”

Some emotion I couldn’t quite read broke across his face; had he thought I would not help?

“Thank you,” he breathed, his relief palpable. Lightning quick, his aura brushed against my own and I felt a shimmering field of energy surround me. I was under his protection.

I looked to Blackwall and Iron Bull, spelling things out in case they were unclear. 

“We break the stones only! Defend yourselves against the demon, taunt it, stun it if you can, give chase, but do not attack. Focus on staying safe and breaking the circle. We’ve faced enough Pride Demons that we can afford the handicap if things take a turn for the worse.”

Creators, bless them. Cassandra and Vivienne would have refused, but these two warriors took it as a matter of pride— a personal challenge. Still, there was no tidy way for it to be done; the summoning stones had us outnumbered, making it something of a free for all.

Solas called the Abyss into the circle, dragging the demon into its center, slowing it to a crawl, and giving our warriors a head start in dismantling the stones. Unfortunately, I couldn’t call on the Void without fear of the demon wandering into its path, forcing me to rely on lightning and fire instead.

I pulled on the veil, trying to unravel the mana bound within the stones. It had been sloppy done, knotting as I tried to untangle it. Nearby, Blackwall crouched under his shield and taunted the demon, deflecting each blow and buying time for Iron Bull to crash his axe against a summoning stone. The demon lashed at me with lightning, but even without Solas' shield it would have had little effect; lightning had flashed in my veins since childhood.

Now trusting it as a sympathetic magic that would do no harm, I cast lightning back on the demon. The light dazzled it for a moment, then it caught sight of me and gave chase. I sprinted ahead to avoid its grasp, then there was a massive burst of energy as the last stone was upturned. The demon immediately coalesced into the form of an elven woman.

The energy surrounding it swirled in thick and sluggish ropes, as dying and unwell as a drought-plagued pond. The corruption had spread too far. Solas knelt beside it, whispered _lethallin_. He’d already told me that he counted this spirit among his closest friends, but I’d never heard a spirit numbered among our kin. This was all new.

Faded for her, his strength diminished from the work of breaking the circle, Solas fell to his knees in anguish. I was ashamed to watch, wished I could melt into the fade to give them a moment of privacy, wished I didn’t understand their every word so I could be as oblivious as Blackwall and Iron Bull. But I couldn’t, and so resolved myself to let it be a Thing of Which We Would Not Speak, something for Solas alone. He’d lost his closest friend, no pithy words would ease that pain, and he deserved to mourn in his own way.

Then Solas stood and met my eyes for an instant. I said nothing to still his rage, then he narrowed his eyes in thanks before descending on the mage and his companions. Dark magic crackled in the air, but Solas left it hanging. In an instant, he snapped the fool’s neck and had another by the throat before the first hit the ground. Solas crushed his wind pipe as if it were a paper straw, then slipped behind the third just as she'd spun around to run. His arms thread under hers, then doubled back so he could lace his fingers behind her neck. In one liquid movement he jerked her head forward so fast that I could barely process what happened.

I could almost taste his disappointment that it had been over so soon. None of the three had even mustered a defensive spell.

“Fuck,” Iron Bull drew the word out in an low whisper of admiration.

“I need some time alone.” Solas didn’t even turn around. “I will meet you back at Skyhold.”

The three of us stood in stupefied silence as he tore off without a backward glance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas!!! Thank you so much to everyone who's been reading along and leaving comments for me, it's such a wonderful encouragement. Super excited about where the plot goes from here <3


	22. Over the Edge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In case there was any doubt, Lavellan is so, so ready for Solas to make a move.

After Solas left us, I immolated the bodies. The civil war had put too many shambling corpses on the Exalted Plains already; I wouldn’t let these mages cause any further harm. When it was done, we started back up the creek toward the cave to reclaim our gear, but an itching in my palm told me a fade rift was close.

Having passed up one demon already, The Iron Bull and Blackwall were already primed for a fight. And I had to confess, so was I. Having seen Solas in his wrath, I had some pent up energy of my own to dispel. We found the demons in a decaying ruin on the bank of the Enavuris, but it wasn’t until I had patched up the rift that I recognized the place.

“By the Dread Wolf,” I murmured, looking at the walls around me.

“What’s that?” Blackwall glanced up from where he’d bent to hack off a demon claw for Helisma.

I turned a full circle, taking in the structure. The room had once been covered by a vaulted ceiling, supported by arches and columns, and the shattered remains of once fine ceramic tiling crunched beneath our feet. The floor sloped in peculiar angles that suggested channeling water. Solas had told me about this place.

“It’s an ancient elven bath house.”

Blackwall grunted to approximate the sound of someone interested in elven lore while breaking off a venomous fang from the demon’s maw. Surprisingly, Iron Bull made a low hum of sincere appreciation.

“Oh, yeah. I could go for a fucking hot bath. A couple of half naked elves to scrub my back, rub me down with some fancy oil…”

Blackwall snorted, and I walked around to explore the place while Iron Bull drifted deeper into his fantasy. I followed the steps up to a second floor and imagined the corridors once glittering with gold and magic. My ancestors walked these halls, their fine robes sweeping along the floors, their voices echoing off the marbled ceilings.

“Let’s make camp here.”

“What?” They didn’t quite respond in unison, but it was close.

“I wouldn’t mind a couple of half naked elves scrubbing my back either,” I joked, “I just have to go into the fade to fetch them. I don’t quite have Solas’ gift for exploration, but drop me in the dead center of a ruin and even I can dredge something up.”

“You mages have the weirdest sort of fun.” 

I decided to sweeten the deal. “I’ll put a fire rune in the shallow part of the river there, hot baths for everyone.”

“Alright, but only if…” The Iron Bull’s smirk told me where this was going, “you scrub my back.”

“Sure.”

I caught him off guard with that, but he was quick to recover.

“Half naked?”

“Only half?”

“Damn, Boss.”

“You recall that I’m Dalish?”

“Throw in some fancy oil and—”

“Don’t push it.”

“Ugh. I’ll fetch the gear,” Blackwall said in resignation, our banter taxing his sense of propriety in the extreme.

While he was gone, Iron Bull helped me clear out the driftwood that had piled up along the shore. I imagine the bend of the river once functioned as an open-air bath, sheltered as it was by two crumbling walls and an arcade lined with shallow alcoves to allow for privacy.

When the space was clear, I cast a glyph into the water at the river’s edge, then used a bit of force magic to slow the current as well. Soon it was steaming hot and glowing with soft orange light. Behaving like the savages most humans assumed the Qunari and Dalish to be, Iron Bull and I shucked off our armor and splashed into the water without a second thought.

It took a bit of teasing to convince Blackwall to join us when he returned, but in truth we needed only to persist enough that he could pretend to have put up a fight. He’d not have us believe a Grey Warden eager to indulge in such frivolity.

“I suppose it would do these old muscles some good,” he finally relented before sinking into the water. “Though it’s damnably hot, Inquisitor.”

I laughed and tugged at the glyph so it wouldn’t get any hotter, then cast about until I found a smooth stone about the size of my palm. I waded over to stand behind Iron Bull, the solid bulk of him completely shielding me from view. As promised, I began scrubbing.

He was a beast, his muscles as hard as the stone in my hand and his grey skin nearly thick enough to be hide. He egged me on, demanding that I scrub harder and harder until I feared I really would leave him raw. Yet he grunted in satisfaction, so I settled into a rhythm. By the end of it, my arms were trembling from the effort; I’d put less into currying the horses for Master Dennet back in Haven.

“Okay, your turn, Boss.”

I slipped back into the water and we traded places, though I had to fish up a smaller stone and he didn’t need to stand. He scrubbed as gently as if I were a porcelain doll, which I appreciated considerably given our difference in size. For all his brawn, Iron Bull had a remarkably delicate way about him, holding the stone with just enough pressure to scrub, never scrape, and one hand resting lightly on my hip to hold me steady.

But there was no heat in his touch, and I recalled a few sidelong glances he'd given Dorian in the past. At any rate, he seemed more attuned to debating the relative merits of various crafting metals with Blackwall. As they squabbled over the effectiveness of dawnstone (which even I had to concede it _was_ a rather lovely shade of pink), a bit of frenzied splashing brought my attention to a few confused fish caught in the pull of my barrier. We laughed at our unexpected supper, and forced ourselves back into our filthy clothes to prepare it.

Curled up in my bedroll, I later marveled at how easily the three of us had shared a bath despite our cultural differences. There'd been no tension, no subtext, a stark contrast to my experience with Solas in the hot spring months ago. While neither Iron Bull nor Blackwall betrayed anything more than casual curiosity at the extent of my vallaslin, Solas had followed every swirling line with deliberate slowness, caressing me with his eyes.

I imagined how it would have felt if Solas, not Iron Bull, had scrubbed my back, one hand laid on my hip to steady himself as he... With those long, slender fingers… And...

Heat spread through my center, pooling between my legs, and my hand slipped down to coax out the pleasure that seemed to bead up whenever I thought of him. I remembered kissing him in the Fade, his tongue pushing into my mouth, and the feel of something more pushing in too. I thought of when he licked the palm of my hand, said he wanted to possess me. What were the words Cole stole from him? "Binding, begging, breaking."

Creators, fuck.

That was all it took. I bit back a moan and rocked silently over the edge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be honest, I have no idea. This just sort of happened, and then I almost deleted it because it was so off topic.


	23. Perhaps One Day Soon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas returns to Skyhold.

I parted ways with Iron Bull and Blackwall at the armory, then took the private stairs into the rotunda unseen. The main hall was filled with a thousand problems to be laid at my feet, and I wouldn't let them keep me from Solas, though I wasn’t quite sure what to expect. He’d been a force of nature the day before, death and destruction at his fingertips, and I wasn’t sure if it had yet turned to mourning.

Mindful of his meditations, I knocked lightly on the door before opening it slowly.

“Hahren?”

I heard only the echoing _caw_ of a dozen crows, and the scrape of quills on parchment from above. The chair at his desk was empty, his staff and belongings still gone. For a moment I couldn’t make sense of the room without him.

He hadn’t come back.

I felt dizzy and my vision swam. The curving fresco seemed to wrap and spin around me, whirling until the eye of the Inquisition flashed in the darkness, its gaze piercing the world. Four great wolves turned their backs on the Sword of Mercy, howling as if Fen’Harel himself hadn’t the courage to face it.

I saw madness in the brushstrokes and thought: what if he never came back?

Suddenly there were too many blighted doors and walls and rooftops blocking the sky, too many miles of stone between me and the earth. My heart skipped a beat, then picked up a rhythm faster than I could bear. Fenedhis, it was beating out of my chest. The air seemed thick and stale, I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t touch the fade, couldn’t see the sun.

I flew back out the door, descending the stairs as calmly as I could and counting each step to stop myself from running. By the time I reached thirty, I’d made a plan: I would walk out the front gate and just keep walking into the snow, and when I couldn’t see Skyhold anymore, I’d let go. I’d lash out and flail and cast the fucking void itself to burn my mana dry. If I could just get out of sight, I could let myself fall to pieces until the panic passed, and no one would have to know.

I’d made it halfway across the bridge before I saw him in the distance, a fleck of darkness against the snow. Relief washed over me, crisp and sweet, scouring away the chaos that had driven me there.

Solas.

Though his shoulders were slumped with fatigue and grief, he moved with purpose. I reached the end of the bridge and paused, allowing myself to pretend that the shimmering thread between us wasn’t so tangled that I couldn’t pull him home. As he entered the shadow of the gatehouse, his eyes met mine.

Whatever I thought I would say died in my throat, and Solas kept walking until he towered over me, forcing me to tip up my chin or look away. It would not have been possible for me to look away. There was something strangely cool to his expression, his features schooled into a careful mask.

“I wasn’t sure you were coming back,” I whispered.

“Neither was I for a time,” he took another step closer, his bare toes touching mine in the snow. Such a little thing. Such a tiny little thing. “But only a short time.”

“Ma serannas.”

“You were a true friend. You did everything you could to help, I could hardly abandon you now.”

The word seemed to catch in my ear. Now. Maybe once before and perhaps one day soon, but not now. On that point I had no illusions. Solas was not a man to promise forever, though he was afraid of dying alone.

“You don’t need to be alone.”

“It’s been so long since I could trust someone,” he burrowed a toe into the snow under the arch of my foot, a gesture so sweetly shy that I could scarcely reconcile it to the flashes of darkness I so often saw in him.

I looked up and could see him wrestling with something, his eyes narrowed and searching. I could almost imagine what he saw: a scale. He was weighing his desires on one side and his regret on the other— whatever secret worry he thought should keep us apart, the thing that made Nightmare call him Harellan. Judging by his expression, he’d yet to find the balance.

“I know,” I said, willing him to understand that I wanted him alone, he could leave his secrets to Dirthamen. We just had to stop pretending we could ignore this...thing.

“I’ll work on it,” he bowed his head. “And thank you.”

We returned to Skyhold together, and I could feel the sun on my skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm obsessed with the the Inquisitor's expression as she's coming down the stairs to meet Solas, shoulders slumped and wary. My first playthrough had her expressing doubt that he'd ever return, and their terse dialogue seems to belie a whole world of unresolved tension.


	24. Wicked Grace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ever wonder what story Lavellan told during that game of cards?

Dorian was reading by the widow, one leg crossed over the other and the backs of his fingers pressed against his mouth. Whatever it was had his full attention, so I perched on the arm of his reading chair to wait. He shifted to rest his elbow on my thigh and turned the page.

It was a particular habit of ours. I learned back in Haven that Dorian simply couldn’t put a book down until he’d finished chasing whatever thread he’d caught, and he learned in time that I was perfectly content to wait. So I never interrupted him until he was ready, and he never had to worry that I was stewing with impatience.

Josephine had brought a trio of mages to Skyhold in hopes that one should become my tutor. Though I’d yet to decide which field of study to pursue, it was less a matter of my aptitude than that of the mages themselves. I was rather put out that the matter hadn’t been given to Vivienne; at least she would have vetted the candidates according to their abilities.

I wouldn’t insult Solas by studying rift magic under a doddering old fool so fade-addled that she’d forgotten her own name, nor with an elf convinced that the Dirth'ena Enasalin belonged to the Chantry. Helaine was the very definition of a flat-ear, so puffed up for having risen through the shemlen ranks that she believed her credentials self evident.

That left the Nevarran Mortalitasi, Viuus Anaxas. He treated his craft with the gravitas it deserved, but even if the other mages had been perfectly competent I doubted I could have resisted the Nevarran's allure. After blood magic, Necromancy was the most taboo of the arcane schools and to my knowledge no Dalish had ever become a Necromancer. That alone would have drawn me in, but my relationship to Dorian had only added to the appeal. The first time he raised a corpse to fight in battle, I’d watched in such rapt fascination that I nearly took an arrow to the knee.

Dorian shut his book with a snap, breaking my reverie and sending dust motes whirling in the candlelight.

“I’ve come to ask a favor.”

“Mmm, your place or mine?” he said with a wink.

For some time, there had been an absurd rumor floating about that Dorian and I were lovers. We often left Skyhold together to practice our more dangerous spells in isolation, and we’d stayed up late drinking in my quarters on any number of occasions, but I suspected it to be political in origin. Perhaps some last, desperate attempt by his father to co-opt his son's private life for his own social climbing.

“Right here in the library.”

“Oh, ho! So then it’s true what they say about the Dalish.”

“Believe me, it’s tr— wait, what do they say?”

“That the elven women take countless lovers, such is the extent of their savage lust.” Then he shrugged, “At least it’s a popular troupe in the Minrathous theatre.”

“Well, if you’d take me now, then I would have exactly one lover. I didn’t realize Tevinters were so terrible at math.”

He raised an eyebrow, gestured over the railing in the general direction of Solas’ study, “Was the bald one not good enough to count?”

The blood must have drained out of my face entirely, because the surprised delight that sprang to life in Dorian’s eyes told me that he hadn’t expected any reaction at all; it had been a hollow stab, like whenever Sera said strange things about my mother.

“My, my, my, is the young mage hot for teacher? What scandal!”

“So we’re talking about you and Alexius then?”

He narrowed his eyes, “Yes, well, how did Sera put it? Takes one to know one?”

It was time to change the subject. I wasn’t about to have this conversation with Dorian considering that I couldn’t get Solas himself to talk about it. Skyhold was already filled with a thousand rumors about me, and it wouldn’t hurt to add one more if I could distract him from the topic. 

“Well, while you’re busy projecting your issues onto me, The Iron Bull and I were splashing naked in the Enavuris last night, scrubbing each other down, and...”

Dorian’s breath caught. “Then I suppose you have one lover after all. Now, didn’t you come here for a favor?”

It was telling that he didn’t ask a single followup question. So I _had_ noticed something between them.

“Actually, yes. I wanted to borrow _Way of the Necromancer_.”

He arched an eyebrow as he went to the shelf, thumbing along the titles until he found a thick, leather bound tome.

“Yet another way in which the dastardly but gorgeous Tevinter will be said to have corrupted Inquisitor,” he sighed.

“Ma serranas, I’ll return it soon.”

“Please don’t. I know _I_ make it look easy, but that’s only because I’m brilliant. You’ll want to give it several careful readings before you summon anything from across the veil. Do let me know if I can help.”

I chuckled. “I don’t think Viuus Anaxas has any intent of letting me rush into— ”

“There you are! I’ve been looking all over for you! We almost had to start without you!”

Shit. Varric. Between catching up with all the requisitions I’d let slide the day before and my ill-timed panic attack, I’d forgotten entirely that I’d promised him a round of Wicked Grace.

“We couldn’t have that, could we?”

I squeezed his arm affectionately and hoped he wouldn’t take my absentmindedness as a slight; we were still patching things up after the business with Cole. Dorian wouldn’t dream of staying behind when drinking and gambling were to be involved.

It was not lost on me that Varric led us through Solas’ study without pausing to invite him, though there was little risk that he would join us. Where Varric could forgive my part in the matter, he'd resented that Solas had denied Cole a chance to grow. Where they once shared passionate conversations on the subject of Dwarven culture, there was only silence. As the three of us breezed through the rotunda, I caught sight of Solas mixing paint on the floor— a flash of cobalt the exact shade of Grey Warden armor. I hoped painting would ease his grief as it seemed sharing it would not.

We found the tavern strangely empty, and I wondered if the gathering of Inquisition leadership had scared off the rank and file, fearful of cutting loose within earshot of their superiors. Whatever the case, as I took a seat between Cassandra and Josephine, Cullen stood up abruptly. For a moment, our eyes met and I’m certain that I flinched. The flash of motion and the sudden change in our position, him standing and me seated, stirred up an involuntary reaction as I recalled kneeling before him.

“You seem to have enough people,” he said awkwardly to excuse himself. “And I have a thousand things to do.”

Dorian, oblivious to what had happened, was having none of it. If Varric had any suspicions, he knew that I’d been smited, although not by whom or why, he gave no indication in his insistence that Cullen take a seat. Unwilling to cause a scene, the Commander sat down stiffly and accepted a hand of cards.

I’d played enough Wicked Grace back in Haven to have the hang of it, but between Varric, Iron Bull, and Josephine, I was clearly out of my league. But Cabot kept the ale flowing, and Varric had a way of drawing everyone into conversation, so the hours flew by. It wasn’t until I started telling everyone about the time the clan was camping in the Tirashan ruins that I realized how drunk I was.

It was really, really not the sort of story I should have told to anyone outside the clan. The sort of outrageous nonsense I pulled when my magic was still new, all pride and flash and brash enthusiasm.

“...Some of the hunters started hearing noises in the middle of the night. As the newly appointed First, Keeper Istimaethoriel sent me with the hunters to investigate. In the darkest recesses of the ruin, we found two flat-earred rabbits.”

Under the table, Sera pinched my leg hard enough to bruise. “Watch yer mouth, Inky.”

“City elves!” I clarified. “It was clear they were trying to…connect to their Dalish roots. They had constructed a summoning circle for Andruil, Goddess of the Hunt. They’d found some pawnshop grimoire and convinced themselves they could return the Creators to our world. Idiots. So we decided to give them a scare. Now, it’s worth adding that I was relatively…familiar with both hunters.”

That brought snickers all around and a smug look from Dorian.

“Sounds like a Tevinter play!”

“Of course one cannot _summon_ a goddess, much less bind her with a few rocks, but they didn’t know that. So at the height of their spell, which did summon a swarm of harmless wisps, the hunters threw smoke grenades into the center of the circle. When the air cleared, there I was, stark naked and trying my best to look the part of a goddess, wisps dancing all around.

"The poor fools fell to their knees, completely oblivious to the fact that I’m marked head to toe for June. Now, Andruil’s famous for once capturing the Dread Wolf and demanding that he spend a year and a day satisfying her in bed, but in the story he escaped. So I say that I’ll be requiring their services instead, and, quick as you please, they’ve shucked off their robes. Right then, my hunters step out of the darkness, arrows nocked and armor glittering with my lightning.

“‘But first,’ I said, ‘You must prove your worth in battle!’’ Their eyes went wide, and one of the poor fellows pissed himself. They ran out of there, fast as you’d think, bare asses shining in the moonlight the whole way back to their village.”

That brought raucous laughter all around, Iron Bull slamming his fist on the table hard enough to shake our steins. Josephine was nearly speechless, half amused and half afraid the tale would ruin the Inquisitor’s reputation. Such as it was, considering the rumors that were already swirling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thousand apologies to everyone who thought we'd finally be making out on the balcony today...


	25. Forgiveness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen and the Inquisitor put the smite behind them.

After I’d told my story, Iron Bull had insisted on another round of drinks and cards, and before I knew it some of us had started betting clothes instead of coin. It wasn’t until Cullen was half-naked that I realized something was amiss. However drunk, he was betting just a little too recklessly for a man trained in strategy. Yet he continued seeing and raising each bet, on and on until he’d lost everything down to his signet ring.

When Josephine had collected her winnings and the teasing subsided, our companions gradually departed in deference to his station. I managed a half smile in his direction before rising from the table myself, turning away quickly enough to send the world swimming around me.

I hadn’t taken three paces away before he stopped me.

“Inquisitor.”

That was all it took to call up the memory in full, ropes around my wrists and ankles, heart pounding in my chest. _A Holy Smite will drive lesser demons back into the Fade, but those more powerful will fight._ I stood motionless, entirely unsure of what to do. I heard the scrape of a chair, and the quiet sounds of bare feet on wood floors. It was fear, not curiosity, that made me turn around.

He stood not an arm’s length away, some mix of guilt and sorrow contorting his features. Very slowly, he knelt.

“Your courage shames me, Inquisitor.” I recognized the tremor of lyrium withdrawal in his voice, and the slur of too much ale. “You stripped away your magic, let yourself be bound, and took the full brunt of a Templar’s might to protect the Inquisition. I said that if you were not possessed I would beg your forgiveness.”

I was utterly speechless and impossibly drunk. This was insane.

“You did what needed to be done, and it—”

“Forgive me.”

“It was on _my_ order!”

Creators, it shouldn’t have happened. Whatever hell was consuming him, I put him there. My doubt put him there. He’d been off lyrium for months, and he’d taken it again because of me.

“Forgive me.”

“Cullen, stop this. There is nothing to forgive!”

“Your hand shakes when you take my reports.”

It was absolutely true. I could face down a hoard of demons, but the knowledge that this shemlen could snap his fingers and drain my mana put the fear of Elgar’nan in me.

“Forgive me, Herald.”

Oh.

That.

He wasn’t asking for my forgiveness, but Andraste’s. Faith was the only thing holding him together without lyrium, and smiting me had put even that into question. I couldn’t be Andraste’s chosen and possessed, so smiting me was all but declaring his lack of faith. Every time I flinched was just a reminder that I didn’t have faith in him either. Fuck. Fucking, fuck.

I did this to him.

In the chaos before Chancellor Roderick fled with the survivors along the Summer Path, Cullen took me by the arm and said perhaps I’d find a way. He was a terrible liar, and every inch of his face was saying goodbye, but he said it anyway so I could have something to hold on to. I could do the same for him now, however ill at ease I felt about my role in his faith.

I touched him lightly on the head, threading my fingers through his golden curls.

It was strange to look down to him, as an elf I was ever looking up, but without the lion’s mane of his armor he seemed so small, vulnerable. He would be an easy thing to kill, should I open a rift, should I call down lightning, should I set the room aflame. And I saw what he was getting at, letting me hold that power for a second so I could know that it wasn't something I would ever want to do. So I could know that it was something he had never wanted either.

“I forgive you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear to Mythal the balcony scene is next. SWEAR. This was also a little for orlyization, who loves awkward Cullen times.


	26. Ar Lath Ma, Vhenan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Balcony Lovin'.

When we returned from the Exalted Plains around sunset, Sera had half a mind to drag me back into the tavern for drinks. It had been a good outing for us, probably because Solas had not come along and his absence always had a way of making me seem immeasurably less elfy to her.

So long as we could focus on arrows and antics, we got along well enough, though we’d actually come to blows over mages and elves on more than one occasion. Presuming that one could count a punch thrown in self defense, at any rate. But considering the previous night, I had no intention of drinking.

Or at least no intention of drinking so much; Dorian found another tome on necromancy that he thought I might peruse, and had invited me up for a glass of Antivan brandy. I was on the verge of making a decision with Viuus Anaxas, and welcomed a chance to discuss it further. Dorian and I left Varric by the hearth in the great hall to head upstairs, discussing skeletal scrying. 

“But it’s not just the condition of the bone matter! The _type_ of skull is crucial,” he explained as we cut through the rotunda, gesturing with both hands to indicate the relative size.

Solas looked up from his desk when we passed by.

“Inquisitor. I was…” He trailed off, looking over to Dorian and back. “Do you have a moment?”

There was a softness to his voice that I’d never heard before, nor was it lost on Dorian. He bid us goodnight and departed without a single jibe, though not until he'd paused in the stairwell to shoot a knowing look over his shoulder.

Solas gestured toward the door and ushered me out into the great hall. I fell a pace behind so that he could lead, and to my surprise he placed his hand lightly on the small of my back. I didn’t have to turn around to know Varric was scribbling _that_ down somewhere.

He guided me toward the dais, and I thought perhaps he had something to show me in the Undercroft; he often helped Dagna interpret elven rune schematics and they’d managed to craft a few remarkable lightning runes in the past. But he veered left instead, toward the door to my quarters.

I climbed the rickety wooden stairs behind him as if this were a perfectly normal turn of events, but my mind was racing. For all the time we spent together, very little of it had been spent in true privacy. Not since Haven, anyway. Unlike Josephine and Dorian, Solas avoided visiting my quarters in favor of conversations held in the rotunda or on the road, effectively providing us with a chaperone at all times.

The air felt crisp as we reached the top of the marble steps, a fire blazing in the hearth but the balcony doors standing open in the winter air; I never could seem to remember that doors were for closing.

He led me outside, widening the gap between us and turning a slow circle to face me.

“What were you like?” he began without preamble, “before the Anchor? Has it effected you? Changed you in any way? Your mind, your morals, your…spirit?”

Something seemed to hang on that last word, but the sudden barrage startled me; Solas rarely inquired about my life before the Inquisition. I held my left hand aloft, turning it in the soft light that bounced from the tower wall. My world had been so small with the clan; it was hard to say whether it was the Inquisition or the Anchor that had changed me most.

“If it had, do you really think I’d have noticed?”

“No, that’s an excellent point.”

“Why do you ask?”

“You show a wisdom I have not seen since,” he paused, carefully considering his words, “since my deepest journeys into the ancient memories of the fade. You are not what I expected.”

“What have I done that’s so surprising?”

“You have shown subtlety in your actions, a wisdom that goes against everything I expected. If the Dalish could raise someone with a spirit like yours, have I misjudged them?”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. Sweet Sylaise, this again? For all that he resented people making assumptions based on the slant of his ears, he was quick imagine those with vallaslin were all alike.

“I don’t hold the Dalish up as perfect…” However he praised my subtlety, I wanted to scream. I could never understand how a man with such nuanced perspectives on spirits and demons could consider _any_ people group universally misguided. “…but we have something worth honoring, a memory of the ancient ways.”

“Perhaps that is it. I suppose it must be. Most people act with so little understanding of the world. But not you.”

Once, back in Haven, Solas had actually winked at me. It was when he was simply my hahren, twice my age if I had to guess, and about as alluring as a woolen blanket. Creators, I saw him differently then. I’d made some frustrated remark about the way most people couldn’t understand my experience in Redcliffe. _I’m not most people,_ he’d said.

He sent me back to that moment for a reason, but the dots wouldn’t quite connect.

“So what does this mean, Solas?”

“It means I have not forgotten the kiss.”

A sweet, sharp stab into the heart of me. How had the conversation changed so fast? It was unexpectedly, unexplainably, wonderfully…

“Good.”

I took a step forward and his posture instantly relaxed. Where he’d been holding himself tightly, shoulders back and hands clasped together, now he was loose and lithe. We shifted closer together in a little dance of half smiles and narrowed eyes. I was reeling and wondering and disbelieving— was this really happening? He was a Solas that I had never seen, almost playful, and I couldn’t help but turn the tables, adopting his usual posture for myself, shoulders back and fingers laced behind me.

He took a step closer and lifted his chin to look down on me before giving the tiniest shake of his head: no.

Then he turned with enough momentum that I knew he truly meant to walk away. I remembered the madness in the brushstrokes, wolves howling, the terror in thinking he was never coming back. I caught him by the crook of his arm, hard enough for my fingernails to pinch through the fleece, desperate to ground us both in the now.

“Don’t go,” I said, because I knew even then that he would never stay. Solas was not a man to promise forever.

“It would be kinder in the long run,” he said without turning around, “but losing you would—“

Something snapped. He spun around, his mouth on mine as his hands skimmed around my waist. His tongue was cool, a delicious contrast sliding over mine. His fingers grazed my ribs, and I sucked his lower lip into my mouth, rolling it between my teeth.

I bit him gently, only enough so that he wouldn’t pull away. How had I managed to catch him? Solas wrapped his arms around me, pulling me close and holding me tight, bending me back as he had in the Fade. And what he’d done then, he was doing once more, somehow pushing into me, filling me with something swirling and immense. The softest moan escaped him, his tongue pushed in deeper along with that strange sense of power.

“Ar lath ma, vhenan.”

He walked purposefully back into my chambers, but I could only slump against the doorframe, weak-kneed and unable to form coherent thoughts. How had Solas leapt from stolen glances to _ar lath ma?_ I tried to catch my breath; when had I stopped breathing? He looked over his shoulder at me, eyes dark and beckoning, then flashing to something like amusement.

I shifted my hip against the door, too stunned to even begin forming words. He closed the distance between us once more, the corner of his mouth fighting a smirk but his voice filled with wonder.

“I take it you’ve never been with another mage.”

My fingers twitched involuntarily, ticking off the names as I remembered them. I’d never even considered that a factor, but...I hadn’t. I flushed with embarrassment; was I the only mage in Thedas who didn’t know? I thought about all the times I’d merely brushed another mage’s aura, never imagining that I could _push_. Fuck.

“You…just fucked me with your mana.”

If the words came out crass, it was only because I was dumbstruck. I’d never even considered the possibility. He chuckled softly and rubbed a thumb across my cheekbone, trying (and failing) to look anything other than smug.

“I did no such thing.” He sounded genuinely incredulous as he drew me into his arms. Then he bent low and caught the tip of my ear in his mouth, “but I certainly will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few points to consider: Solas' dialogue on the balcony includes the word "wisdom" twice, so I don't think it's a coincidence the quest with Wisdom immediately precedes their romance. I used to think that Wisdom was holding Solas back, counseling him to stay clear of mortal affairs, thus after its death he lost the "wisdom" to stay away.
> 
> But now I'm starting to think that Wisdom was encouraging the relationship (this is supported by Cole saying "your friend wanted you to be happy"), and it was Solas who held back by prioritizing duty over happiness; he only reconsiders in light of Wisdom's death, perhaps to honor its memory? I'm not sure.
> 
> Second point: like my Lavellan, I used to think this dialogue was a major non-sequitur. Now I'm starting to see that it isn't until this conversation that Solas is able to look past her vallaslin. Up until now, it was a huge turn off for him: a slave marking, a sign of ignorance, a reminder of his rebellion's failure, etc.


	27. Mages Do it Better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because Solas has got to be the weirdest lay.

I felt like a teenager again, fumbling in the back of an aravel and completely unsure of what exactly one was supposed to do with a cock. That first time, it had been all grabby hands and awkward tongue, sucking too damn hard instead of lingering because neither of us knew any better. Only now it was my magic, something I thought I had mastered a very long time ago, that felt so clumsy in my hands.

“Try it again now.”

I brushed my aura against Solas, felt the trembling energy within, then tried to push without shoving. He nodded, watching through half lidded eyes as I began to build up enough pressure to penetrate his barrier. It happened faster than I expected, and I slipped into his mana pool as if it were an overfilled bath, a sense of warm immersion and displacement all at once.

Solas made an appreciative sound that quickened my pulse, so I reached deeper. It was an oddly delightful feeling, expending mana without actually using it up.

“Reclaim it.” There was a firm edge to his voice, a reminder that it was still a spell to handle with care.

Reclaim it? I shifted on my knees, still more than a little distracted by the fact that I was straddling him, though albeit still fully clothed. We’d spread out by the fire, touching and kissing before I was brave enough to try this thing apparently every other mage had figured out as a teenager.

I whispered into the fade, calling my mana and drawing it home with a breath. I was rewarded by a low rumble from Solas while a satisfying sense of potential snapped back into place. I felt fat with magic, like downing a lyrium potion for no reason at all.

“That is a kiss,” he said in the same tone he reserved for pointing out some common herb in the woods.

I snorted. “An Orlesian kiss, maybe.”

Solas smiled, then pushed at me in a rush of mana and I caught my breath in surprise. I welled my own mana to resist him and the clash of it sparked through my body. His too, should that sly smile have been any indication. He lunged forward to tumble me back, landing astride my hips with one hand cradling my neck. He kissed me again, with tongue and mana alike.

Gods. How had I never kissed a mage?

His mana began to beat at a steady pace and I followed his lead, synching my aura to my pulse and twisting my tongue against his. The grip on my neck tightened, and I slid my hands along his back, searching for the edge of his tunic so I could find my way to skin. But I never did, lost along the way in the churning rhythms of mouths and magics.

“Now,” he said softly, “I want you to finish me.”

To my eternal embarrassment, I actually moaned.

“Will you do that for me?” he purred. “I shall guide you, so that you will understand what it means when I take you in return.”

Creators, fuck. Gods, I don’t need to understand, just…He cut off my train of thought with steady words to guide me.

“Push into me. More,” he urged. “You can give more. Focus. That’s right, yes. Now cast.”

“What?” I was breathless from the exertion and deliciously empty, the way you feel after a good scream.

“Cast anything at all. No, perhaps something elemental. That will be most comfortable for you, I think.” I was ridiculously self satisfied to hear the distraction in his voice. “Nothing will happen when you cast, not physically, but it will ignite your mana inside mine.”

I called on lightning, my fingers tracing the shape and the spell a whisper on my lips. A surge of energy raced through my veins where lightning should have been, and Solas rocked forward against the force of it, one hand clenching around the back of my neck and the other grasping at my hip. Then the mana washed back into me, dissolving with the tingle of electricity in the unspent spell. He slumped down against me, a deep sigh warm on my neck.

"I have so many more uses for that indomitable focus, da'len." One hand skimmed over my shoulder, cupping my breast, sliding over my hips before dipping under my waistband. "But now I will see it undone."

“Solas!" Guilt flashed alongside my excitement, "That’s not fair. I didn’t even—”

“When did I ever say I was fair?”

He slipped two fingers along the wetness between my legs, then pushed inside. Gods, I’d always thought it mere foreplay, but now it was everything. A gentle rhythm began, his fingers undulating inside me and thumb swirling just above my clit, teasing me with muted motions. There was a pattern to it, and I wasn't so far gone that I didn't realize he was tracing a glyph into the folds of my cunt. He'd been right all along: the Dalish didn't know a damned thing.

The glyph was alight and heat blossoming between my legs, spiraling into me as his fingers plunged deeper and his tongue slid into my mouth, his mana forcing itself atop my own. When he had me breathless and squirming, he began to lazily withdraw only to start again. Seconds stretched by, or it might have been hours, I was lost in the churning motion of throbbing mana, curling fingers, swirling tongue. White hot pleasure shot through the center of me, every nerve a snowflake melting against my skin— he’d cast frost.

For an instant, the world was crystalline and I could see the trailing lights of spirits in the Fade, then my body caught up to the magic and a physical orgasm curled me inward, drawing my hips up and my shoulders forward until I’d all but wrapped myself around him. I lay there trembling in the aftershocks for Creators know how long, clinging to Solas before sliding limply to the rug.

The sky was dark behind us, firelight drowning out the stars and bathing us in a warm, orange glow. Solas was propped up on one arm above me, for once his secrets held at bay. He looked down with an expression as open and warm as I'd ever seen, peaceful.

“You are radiant, vhenan,” he whispered.

He kissed the palm of my hand, emerald light from the Anchor sweeping the shadows from his face. I stroked his cheek with my fingertips, tried to swallow, tried to think, but I was still too overwhelmed; it's how he always seemed to love me best. At some point I realized that he’d taken me to the fluffy human bed, and I later awoke in a tangle of limbs. Solas was still in the Fade, I hadn't yet figured out to find him on purpose, but his face was serene.

Watching him in the darkness, the weight of it began to sink in. He'd come at me with so much all at once that I'd hardly had time to think it through. But with a single word my life had changed forever— vhenan. It’s the reason that, unlike our city cousins, the Dalish do not propose marriage. No ceremony can force your heart inside another’s chest, no paperwork can steal it back. We elves will fall in and out of love many times, but each of us has only one vhenan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't even gotten to the actually smutty stuff and I'm blushing so fucking hard at the computer that even my BF is wondering what the hell I'm up to. GO AWAY, I AM CHEATING ON YOU WITH SOLAS.


	28. Chuckles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I love that Varric's nickname for Solas seems so unwarranted, even as an ironic nickname, until you remember that Fen'Harel supposedly spent several centuries laughing with glee after sealing the Creators away. And then, bam, you realize the writers were trolling us from the very first moment we met Solas.

Even after everything, I expected to wake alone. I'd made peace with that before falling into my second sleep, knowing how deeply Solas valued his privacy. Unless he rose well before dawn, a chamber of ambassadors, emissaries, and other dignitaries would greet him on exiting my quarters, swarming around my door the moment it opened. And with Varric’s penchant for taking his morning cup by the hearth, it would be nearly impossible for Solas to slip into the rotunda unseen.

So it came as a tremendous surprise to discover Solas had stayed the night and that, even better, he was a snuggler. I awoke wrapped in the warmth of him, one arm curled around my waist, the other pillowed under my head, and his right leg thrown over mine. Whatever came of my time with the Inquisition, it had given me one perfect moment and I would not forget it. 

I twisted onto my back so I could look up at him, his clear eyed expression a hint that he’d been awake for some time. I pressed my lips together and rubbed the fade from my eyes, arcing myself against him in a lazy stretch. With a little push I rolled atop him, reveling in my freedom to do so, landing a kiss on the crown of his head. A dull prickle against my lips confirmed a long held suspicion: it was a razor, not age, that wizened his features.

Solas took advantage of the way I’d exposed my throat to trail open mouth kisses along my neck. He was kneading my ass with both hands, and I was suddenly quite disappointed that he let us fall asleep in our clothes; an unfortunate detail that did not stop me from sliding my hand over the moss-green fabric of his pant leggings and down the length of him. Creators; the length of him.

All too casually, he grabbed me by the wrist and tucked my hand against his chest.

“No.” 

“No? Is there some urgent business we must attend to this morning? Because it’s only,” I glanced at the shadows to hazard a guess, “six bells.”

“No,” he repeated with more finality.

“Too old to take me in the real world, hahren?”

Solas snorted, the same stuttering sort of laugh he gave when I was so new to the shemlen world that I imagined Varric a part of the Chantry. But just when I thought it would stop, it continued, bubbling into full fledged laughter. Like Dorian, he had a rather cultured laugh, and I smiled at the oddity of seeing it run away from him so. He covered his eyes with one hand to compose himself. But the twitching fragments of his smile couldn't be driven away, and Solas pulled me down to bury his face in my shoulder, smothering another round of throaty chuckles.

He rolled out from under me to clutch his sides, tears streaming down both cheek, silent laughter now shaking his shoulders. I couldn't understand how my half-assed innuendo had managed to break his composure, but there it was. Solas was entirely, inexplicably, adorably undone— a side of him that I never expected. Our relationship was defined by sides of him that I never expected.

When Solas finally chocked down a few calming breaths, he turned on his side to face me, pink eared and smiling.

“Ar lath ma,” he whispered, as happy as I’d ever heard him.

“Ar lath ma, Fen’Harel,” I teased, cupping his cheek in my hand.

He smiled up at me with a curious expression, but the creases at each corner of his mouth and eyes had softened. If I had not played Wicked Grace so often with Varric pointing out such tells, I would never have noticed the subtle shift.

“Seranna ma?”

“Ar lath ma,” I repeated, unafraid to pout just a little. “Can I not say it back?”

“Not that, the other,” his voice was disbelieving, and I couldn’t imagine why he wouldn’t believe— I suddenly remembered _Harellan_ , and my stomach dropped. Harel represented a secret dark enough for the Nightmare to have twisted against him, and I had forgotten entirely. Fenhedis, what a careless thing to say.

“Fen’Harel?” I pinched his arm, my tone as light as I could make it. “Famous for denying Andruil his services in bed. Famous for rolling around, hugging himself, and giggling with glee?”

“So they say,” he laughed, this time just pretending, “I am simply unaccustomed to a Dalish invoking the name so lightly.”

“Ir abelas. I’ve spoiled it. The first time I’ve ever told you and I marred it with a joke—“

He kissed me full on the mouth, hands threading through my hair, mana swelling.

“It was perfect,” he said. “I am gratified to see you shake off such superstition.”

Somehow, despite the depth of my misstep, I believed him. And because I’d spoken so foolishly, I refrained from saying anything more about my so-called superstitions. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A hundred thousand smutty kisses to everyone who commented on the last chapter. I was so shy and nervous to post it, and your encouragement meant the world. Seriously, every single comment brightened my day and had me squeeing on the couch, and my BF was just like "Oh, god, is this about Solas again?" And I was like "Gods, no!" and he was like "You just said gods."
> 
> I will definitely post stuff like that again as the story warrants.
> 
> Also big thanks to cheshire137 for introducing me to the [Geek Remix Animated](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=6-idPns5g1o) about Solas being a freak in bed. I have never laughed so hard, please go watch it if you haven't.


	29. the Herald and the Hermit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A slight re-imagining of the conversation a necromancer can have with Solas.

For an hour, Solas and I remained in bed, nose to nose and lost in the newness of it. It seemed his prediction in Haven had finally come true, I had indeed come to appreciate my fluffy human bed. At least so long as he was in it, filling my morning with laughter and gentle touches and stories of matchmaking spirits. We meandered into a deeper conversation on the nature of spirits, about the loss of Wisdom and the potential for something new to form in its place.

At last I ventured to explain my interest in necromancy, and his fingers skimmed the blade of my ear while I spoke of its strange allure.

“So you will begin practicing new magical forms? Interesting.”

"Well, not immediately, but I've delayed my commitment to Viuus long enough. I should go to the Storm Coast and gather the materials I need to become an initiate."

“The school seems to draw energy across the veil, wisps too simple to be considered spirits. I believe Dorian uses similar magic. Is that why you have chosen such an esoteric area of study? The two of you are close.”

It was less a question than an observation, and I smiled. I never thought I’d count a shemlen necromancer from Tevinter among my lethallin.

“Since Redcliffe,” I trailed off. I hadn't talked about the specifics of it with Solas before, though I presumed he read the transcription of my report. “One moment he was this mage I neither knew nor trusted, and the next my only hope to set things right.”

“That sounds familiar,” he said softly.

Oh. My heart swelled; I'd never thought of it like that before. 

“It’s not only Dorian. I hope that studying such magic will help me better understand spirits.”

“While our fight affords little time for formal study, the wise can better themselves even in the midst of battle. Perhaps especially then. I hope your new studies serve you well.”

I had feared risking his ire in necromancy, given his protective feelings toward spirits of the fade, so it relieved me to have his support. 

“Come with me?”

“If it please you. Put on your armor, vhenan.”

We untangled ourselves and he moved to sit on the edge of my Orlesian bed, legs spread wide, elbows on his knees, fingers steepled before him and his eyes locked on mine. After what happened at the hot spring, I hesitated on the brass button of my tunic, my heart racing at the idea of standing naked before him once more. His mouth parted slightly and I steadied my fingers, unfastening the buttons until my tunic fell open.

Stepping back toward the chaise, I shrugged free and the tunic slid from my arms. I pulled my breastband up and over my head, then paused for a moment, unsure. If it had been another man, I would have smiled coyly or tossed it to him, but Solas wore an expression so dark with lust that the air felt heavy and thick. It was not a playful mood at all, but something more thrilling.

The breastband dropped to the floor and I tore loose the lacing of my breeches, shimmied to tug them down one hipbone and then the other, then turned my back on him as I bent to step free. Looking over my shoulder, I watched his expression change as I untied the knots holding my smallclothes in place.

I pivoted on one foot to face him, certain the resolve of his previous "no" was fading. His eyes slid along the curving lines of my vallaslin, and some strange emotion flickered across his features, the fire in his eyes and the fit of his pants at odds with his stillness. He took a measured breath and I ventured a step closer to break his reverie.

“Stop.”

I froze at the command in his voice.

“Your armor.”

Fenhedis, that tone would broker no argument. I fetched a spool of olive green cambric from the drawer, crisscrossing and braiding the gauzy fabric around me as I did every morning. I may have worn shemlen garb to court, but on the field I was Dalish. I pulled on leggings and a tunic before donning light mail and the enchanted robes Keeper Hawen had given me. When I laced up my leather bodice, Solas clenched his jaw as I pulled the strapping tight.

The element of seduction behind me, I worked briskly to shoulder my pauldrons, secure the buckles to my chestplate, and slip on my fingerless gloves. I fastened my vambraces and latched my greaves, and harnessed my staff. 

I didn’t know it then, but this would become our ritual— his lust abating with every piece of armor until I was safe from his gaze. He stood and straightened his tunic, the fabric of his breeches no longer straining and his face placid. He stood with hands clasped behind his back, the faintest hint of a smile on his features.

“Da'len.” 

“Hahren.”

We walked down the steps together, and my heart stuttered when we reached the door. In all her lessons on courtly intrigue, Josephine had never taught me the protocol for waltzing from my bedchamber to greet the court of the Inquisition with a lover at my side.

“What should I do?”

He looked down at me as if I were the silliest da’len in all of Thedas.

“You are a scion of The People and among the most powerful mages seen in this age, do as is your right. It is no concern of theirs whom you take to bed.”

I couldn't wrap my mind around the thought: I’d taken Solas to bed.

“Although you would do well not to smirk, Inquisitor.”

I cleared my throat, schooled my face into a neutral mask, and opened the door. Solas kept his hand on the small of my back as we strode into the great hall, and I wondered how he managed to carry himself with such an easy grace while I was eaten up with nerves. We’d been no more than knife-eared apostates such a short time ago, and now stood at the center of what would no doubt become a scandal of the Inquisition— the Herald of Andraste and her mystic lover.

The courtiers greeted me no differently than any morning, but I was not so naive to think that my sudden choice of company was not at the forefront of their thoughts. We made our way through the hall so that Solas could gather his armor and belongings, and I prepared myself to greet Varric as if there were nothing unusual about the day at all.

“Morning, Boots.” That he never looked up from his notebook boded well; I knew Dorian would be an ass about it when word got out, and I didn’t want to imagine having to handle them both. His indifference was a relief.

“We’re heading up to the Storm Coast with Dorian this afternoon, care to join us?”

“Let’s see, driving rain, camping in the mud, creepy skulls, and death magic? Think I’ll pass.”

“Fair enough,” I laughed. “I’ll see if I can’t drag Sera along, we had a good run of it yesterday. But since I can’t fill you in on the road, I’ve got some news about _Hard in Hightown._ ”

I sat on the corner of his desk, and Solas took the occasion to continue on his way. Before he’d gone through the door Varric lifted his quill and called out over his shoulder.

“Sleep well, Chuckles?”

“Indeed so, Master Tethras,” said Solas, disappearing into his study.

And that was that. When it came to our relationship, Solas had nothing to prove and nothing to hide, but the topic was not up for discussion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love to imagine the things Solas must tell himself to justify their relationship. <3
> 
> Happy New Year!!! Here's hoping to a 2015 filled with all the Solas related DLC of our dreams.


	30. Not So Final As Some May Think

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When my Inquisitor chose necromancy, I had hoped for a cutscene with Viuus Anaxas. There is a lot of darkness implied by that specialization (particular the companion dialogue and wartable missions) that I thought added a beautiful nuance to my Lavellan's relationship with Solas.

As far as shemlens go, I thought Viuus quite handsome— caramel colored skin and eyes like ironbark, black shadows darkening his cheeks where a beard wanted to grow, and smooth round ears against the dome of his skull. He seemed rather well built for his frame, clad in leathers of sea foam and chestnut emblazoned with the coral heraldry of the Grand Necropolis.

We’d built an alter in my quarters, a hundred and one veilfire tapers, each one a mantra, and three jeweled skulls lined up in a row. I’d spent the better part of a week cleansing their mana, then physically preparing them with a polishing cloth before insetting jewels in the pattern of a Mortalitasi glyph.

Dorian had helped me scout along the Storm Coast for three perfectly intact skulls, teeth and jawbone secure, which indicated their bodies had once been handled with care. That in itself increased the odds that their lives had commanded respect, creating a more alluring home for a displaced fade spirit.

I’d spent the better part of two weeks cleaning and cleansing them, polishing with a soft cloth and gentle puffs of mana to restore the harmony of their aura. When I’d begun it was grim work; I’d killed more than my fair share of shemlen but I’d never lingered with their bones. Then it became merely macabre, as eerie as the fade and somewhat serene, but oddly familiar.

I began to notice subtle differences between the three, realizing that this one would have had a regal countenance, where the other was impish and a third almost childlike. This made it easy to imagine the spirits that once resided within, the skin that once stretched without, and they became real to me. As Solas more easily saw the beauty of a ruined temple, I more easily saw the lives each skull once housed.

Viuus asked me to lower my barrier and kneel, and so I did. He stood behind me, fingertips on my shoulder, chanting. Unlike the Chant of Light, it wasn’t a song but a spell, and his touches were a glyph of their own, a pattern he traced from my shoulders to my scalp in swirling runes. It was a preparation, a trade. I could not ask for a spirit to guide me if I were not willing to one day do the same; after my death another mage might claim my skull to jewel it along the lines of Viuus' touch. Someday, some strange spirit might borrow my bones to see the world once more.

It was a comfort that one day I would not be fighting, one day I would not be afraid.

Magic filled the room and the Anchor flared in response to the thinning of the veil. I didn’t need to open my eyes to know a thousand tiny wisps were floating through the air, lazily drifting like fireflies in summer.

I cast a spell then, not a summoning but an invitation.

One by one, the skulls lit from within as spirits came to inhabit them, to peek out and investigate the elven mage who was calling. I opened my eyes and returned their stare, traces of forgotten features seeming to flash over the bone. The lights flickered out and blazed in waves, each spirit taking its turn to come and see.

An hour passed, the swarm of wisps never thinning, the skulls lighting and extinguishing with each tourist from the fade. Viuus knelt beside me, whispered low in my ear.

“This is unusual, Inquisitor. I have never known the spirits to show such curiosity, such hesitation.”

My heartbeat quickened. I thought of the jewels that I had selected, the spells that held them secure. Thought of the hundred and one mantras, each an opportunity to misspeak, and the spell I cast in calling. I turned to ask where I had gone wrong, and found him close enough that our cheeks brushed.

“Let us demonstrate patience,” he said.

What felt like another hour passed, and Viuus stood to his feet.

“Raise your barrier, but do not move from this place until I return.”

I could see little past the blue glow of the tapers, but heard him descend the stairs. Spirits continued to press into my chambers, gliding around the shimmering dome of my barrier, slipping into the skulls to see and then departing. Solas once told me that spirits were no less individuals for their lack of physical form, and so I was not afraid. They were pilgrims come to see me, no different than those who came to Skyhold every day.

Viuus returned with a perfect cube of a box, polished wood and iron. He knelt at my side and opened it with care, revealing a skull of his own cradled in port stained velveteen. It was inlaid with obsidian and dawnstone, but in a pattern like my own. Light flared from its eyes and Viuus drifted into a trance, his lips moving in silent conversation. After a time, the light faded and Viuus opened his eyes.

“The spirits have concern."

“I've heard it said the Anchor's magic has an unusual flavor.”

“It is not that, Inquisitor. They say a powerful spirit has attached itself to you already and that they fear reprisal.”

“Cole,” I breathed.

“Inquisitor?”

“One of my companions is a spirit. A spirit of compassion, they need not fear. We are close, but not bound. ”

“Let us see if this can be made known to them. Perhaps braver spirits will yet emerge.”

He stood behind me and cast again, intensifying the number and strength of the wisps as I lowered my barrier once more. It happened faster then, the blinking of the wisps. Magic rushed through the room like a gathering storm, and I inferred from Viuus' posture that this was what he had expected from the start. The air felt crisp and serene, and I saw all three skulls alight.

“You must now choose to accept this role. To shepherd and condemn,” he said.

“I am ready to commit to this, to train in necromancy.”

To shepherd and condemn. Three spirits had chosen to risk their existence for me, but I could accept only one. I extended my aura to greet them, tasting their magic. I had expected each to be different, but they were almost indistinguishable, like a trio of Leliana’s spies— each stealthy, clever, and brave.

There was a tug and swirl of magic, like handshakes or hugs as we made our acquaintance, and I noticed within one of the spirits a song. Or at least a rhythm to its magic that drew me in, a tapping. It was the baby-faced skull, sweet and round with youth, now patterned with everite and stormheart. I placed my hand atop it as Viuus had taught me and pushed with my mana.

“You have begun a path that goes well beyond where others must stop.”

Warmth flooded me as the spirit returned the gesture, and if not for Solas I would not have recognized it as a gentle kiss.

It was over.

The light had gone from all three skulls, but only one retained a tingling sense of magic. With a gesture, Viuus brought true fire to all the candles in the room, the warm glow returning my chambers to normalcy. I stood slowly, my knees a little stiff, cradling the jeweled skull in my hands. There was a spirit that would always come when I called and I would never be alone. It would torment my enemies with waking nightmares, steal another's skin to walk beside me, and in death it would raise my corpse in vengeance as I passed into the fade.

“You will find, Inquisitor, that life is not so final as some may think. Welcome to our way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stupid real world clients trying to keep me from Solas. The nerve. Heading off to Halamshiral very soon, and the pace will pick up!
> 
> Huge shout out to the insanely talented Orlyzation who made a [Tarot Card](http://bugbiite.tumblr.com/post/106892674525/levallan-tarot-card-for-keeperlevellan-aka-the) of my Inquisitor, complete with Solas' cloak and staff and sylvanwood ring. It's gorgeous.


	31. Solas Was a Liar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Partly inspired by all the times Josephine hints at all the unspeakable rumors surrounding the Herald.

Josephine and Leliana did their best to control the rumors that a Mortalitasi inspired, though I took exception to their definition of control. To downplay the presence of Viuus in Skyhold, they allowed it to be thought that I’d kept him on as a lover. Combined with the rumors already swirling about my relationship to Dorian, these efforts were entirely successful in deflecting attention from the growing power of my new magic.

To my chagrin, it was only because I found myself in the middle of an imagined ménage à trois. Because none of us were Orlesian, the story became a rack upon which the nobles could hang their prejudices, against Nevarra, against Tevinter, against the elves in general and the Dalish in particular.

Apparently it was nothing more depraved than the rumors surrounding any political figure in Orlais, and so two of my three advisers considered it a rousing success. At least Cullen had the decency to be appalled. 

As a result, Solas was quickly forgotten at court— compared to a necrophiliac orgy there was nothing salacious about a middle aged elf. They regarded Solas as a kindly, paternal figure and I think it amused him to play the part. But sometimes, if we were the only two mages on the field, he would push into me with his mana as we walked along, his face betraying no hint of what transpired. I would push back, never dropping the conversation at hand, never looking to gauge his reaction.

I didn’t have to see him to know. Didn’t have to touch him to feel.

Which was a good thing, considering. Solas was a man of peculiar tastes.

To that extent, being with Solas was remarkably like not being with Solas. He was no less aloof and distant, no more likely to discuss himself, and no easier to reach. He rarely shared my bed at Skyhold or my bunk on the field, and when he did I was never allowed to touch him, though he seemed free to do as he pleased. But he was with me every night regardless. Ravenous. The Fade was his playground, and there was nothing that did not interest him so long as we were there.

He’d told Iron Bull such things were childish and beneath him but, as I quickly learned, Solas was a liar.


	32. Sweet Talker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just another day in the life of a Necromancer who doesn't realize she's in love with the Dread Wolf.

Her name was Amalia.

We didn’t meet until a few weeks after the ceremony, but Viuus had already cautioned that the process took time. It…she… would require an adjustment period, learning how to navigate the fade while tethered to the Nevarran skull, observing my dreams, taking stock of the world I'd invited her to join.

After dinner every night, when Josephine had gone, I’d cast a summoning spell within the skull and wait. It was something of a beacon rather than a command, a signal that could be followed or ignored, and for two weeks nothing came of it. Then one night the skull flared as it had during the ritual, soft green light scattering off the everite.

That was all the sign she'd given, but then she came to me a few days later in the fade.

I'd been wandering along Judicael's Crossing in a time before the bridge had been destroyed, and a woman met me along the way, approaching from the side nearer the Pools of the Sun. She looked no more than twenty five or six, about my age or perhaps a little older. For a human, her amber eyes were large and widely set, adding a rather catlike quality to her expression. Her hair was long and thick, a heavy mass of copper waves, and she wore a simple linen shift.

“Hello,” she said with a hardness that reminded me of Cassandra, or maybe it was simply the Nevarran accent.

“Hello,” I returned, pausing in the shadow of a tall statue.

“You heard my song."

“I heard a tapping."

She smiled, and with her teeth I saw ghosts of everite and stormheart jeweled along her skull.

“I am glad that you chose me, but the elgar is not.”

The spirit, yes. Cole had actually been very upset with me. I woke up the morning after Viuus left to find the wide brim of his hat arcing between the stone owls above my bed. _You’re different,_ he’d said, no sweetness to his voice. _You pull at pieces. They push into place, demons but different but wrong. I don’t like it._

“Cole will…warm up to the idea.”

“Compassion? I had forgotten about that one, as he likes to be forgotten. No, the other.”

“The other?”

She looked at me darkly, and I felt a tingling in the Anchor.

“My name is Amalia,” she said.

“I’m Rial.”

“No one ever calls you that.”

My eyes opened and I was back in the Emprise du Lion, a clean step from the Fade to the world. But I must have shifted suddenly, because Solas tightened his arms around me and gently bit the back of my neck in his sleep. It was, without question, my favorite thing about sharing a bed with him. That and the warm expanse of his chest behind me, or the way he’d slip one hand over my mouth when we’d spoon together while the other dipped lower.

 _Be quiet, vhenan,_ he’d say softly.

Solas didn’t often join me in my tent, we thought it best to maintain our party's typical bunking arrangements, so I treasured each occasion. Considering that he'd spent the entirety of my life in hermitage, I appreciated that his taste for solitude was deeply ingrained. It had taken such slowness to win him that I did not want to push. But he never denied me on the occasions that I asked, and the day before I met Amalia had been such a time.

Between the eerie glow of red lyrium and its haunting song, as well as the enormous statue of Fen’Harel lurking in the cave, the Highgrove Camp unsettled me. Not that I said any such thing to Solas; he’d have only observed the irony in fearing an inanimate block of stone while keeping a possessed human skull by my bed. So without any explanation, I simply tugged on the hem of his sleeve when we made camp, and he followed me into my tent before Sera had the chance.

I was glad for him now, Amalia had come as a shock. Viuus compared the experience to gaining the friendship of a feral cat. It would take time and trust, and initiative would only ever come from the other side. I could do no more than set out a dish of milk and wait. It had been a thrill to finally meet her, though I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised to find her cryptic and strange. Spirits were like that even under the best of circumstances, I just hadn't expected her to find me so far from Skyhold.

This meant I could call on her now, whisper for favors in battle. A shiver ran through me at the thought, and Solas bit my neck again. Enough to hurt, but in a way that felt exciting. I imagined that somewhere in the Fade he meant business. I felt his hardness press into me through our breeches; even with a gentle fire rune beneath us, the Emprise was no place to sleep in the nude. I twisted one arm behind me to stroke him through the heavy cloth, felt him swell against my hand. Now he was fully erect, and awake, because he’d taken me by the wrist.

“No.” His voice was sleepy and soft.

“You started it.”

“I did no such thing.”

“You bit me. Twice. And that,” I shimmied my ass against him, “had nothing to do with me.”

“Come back to the Fade with me, vhenan.”

“Solas…”

“It is warm and brighter there, we have no need for clothes. Besides,” he nuzzled into my neck again, "I would prefer to hear your cries."

I blushed in the darkness. He always made such a good case for it. I could hardly argue for stealth sex in a frigid tent when he could take me to a time when it was summer in the Emprise. Hard to argue for a well worn bedroll and musty canvas when I could have a verdant grass and a canopy of stars.

"Ar lath ma, do not deny me in this."

“Sweet talker.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The hardest part about my necromancer playthrough was Cole's disapproval. My heart actually stuttered when he said he didn't like it. I was sad to not have the dialogue option: "I'm so sorry, Pumpkin!")
> 
> Thanks to a comment from misswildcard, I realized that my phrasing in the previous chapter could be construed to mean that Solas doesn't allow Lavellan to touch him period, which is not the case. I meant only to indicate that their relationship had not (yet) been physically consummated, for reasons known only to Solas at this point.


	33. Sera Was Never

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because subtext is the only thing that could make Sera's in-game banters on Necromancy and Solavellan even better.

The rain just wouldn’t let up.

We were all of us soaked to the bone, wet cloth and leather weighing us down, slowing our steps. Within their fort, the Blades of Hessarian had the clear advantage, and their swarm of mabari left little time for spellcasting. Solas and I were using the blades of our staves more so than our magic, and even Sera had a hell of a time finding room to maneuver.

It was Blackwall carrying the fight, hunkered down behind his shield and swearing up a storm. I had just enough time to throw lightning into the crowd before jumping back to bring my staff down on a growling mabari. A wall of ice flew up beside me and a split second later a hail of arrows clinked against the other side. For an instant I saw Solas across the ward— pale and panicked on my behalf, but hemmed in by warriors all around.

I called the Rift above him, satisfied to see it thinning their ranks, but then all was forgotten when a second mabari lunged at me and I couldn’t free my staff from his brother— the hooked blade had lodged between the plates of armor. Of course the gods damned things were armored.

It knocked me back, wrenching the staff from my hands as I fell and the thing landed on my chest, jaws wide and snarling for an instant before an arrow skewered its throat. A flash of unfamiliar fletching told me it wasn’t a rescue from Sera but a Hessarian who’d barely missed. Shit.

Arctic winds swirled around me, Solas was trying to slow the dogs and misguide the arrows, but gods, there were so many of both. An arrow pelted me in the thigh, unable to penetrate my mail, but the force of it hard and bruising. Then the world went white as teeth tore into my wrist just below the vambrace. I got off a mindblast, but the mabari had locked its jaws tight enough to shred as it was blown back.

Gods damnit, I could take a giant but would drown in a pack of war hounds.

Pain and instinct curled me in on myself, chin to chest to protect my throat, and another dog snapped at the nape of my neck, teeth scraping skull. A single hoarse whisper escaped my lips.

“Amalia.”

Deep violet mist rolled out from the earth, from everywhere at once, and weights lifted as the dogs began to howl. The field erupted in sudden chaos, Hessarian archers shooting their own mabari, warriors ripping their helms off in panic, and the leader of them all screaming bloody murder and clawing out his eyes. I reached for a restoration potion, saw blood and bone at my wrist and lost my grip.

Everything turned slow and hazy with Amalia whispering in the back of my mind. _You will not fall. Death and dying all around, I’ve spilled their blood for you. I will feed you._ In the fog I could see Sera stalk the edges of battle, well placed arrows finding exposed throats in the confusion, Blackwall leveling frosted Hessarians, and Solas stepping through the veil. Amalia's healing came over me faster than a potion, a rush of blackness that sprang to light in my veins, skin and muscle crawling back into place and blood singing its way home. Then Solas was at my side, hauling me from the ground to a sitting position, hands on my shoulders to shake me like a child.

“What were you thinking?! Why did you not cast the Rift where it was needed?”

He jabbed his finger at the sky above me, rage hot on his features.

“Don’t know the elfy word for it, but normal people call that saving yer arse.”

His lip curled back at Sera’s voice, but he didn’t take his eyes from mine and then I realized: not rage but fear.

“Fenedhis, never do that again!”

His face softened to relief, and Solas kissed me hard on the mouth, tongue sweeping, hands in my hair. I was so caught off guard I couldn't even kiss him back. Though we never tried to hide small touches of affection, he’d never done anything so public before. He helped me to stand, and we made our way through the fort to gather any supplies that would be of value. We hadn’t expected a fight at all; I suppose the quartermaster had missed a step in crafting Mercy’s Crest.

We trudged down to the Small Grove Camp, Amalia following behind inside the Hessarian Leader’s skin, sword drawn and guarding our retreat should any stragglers give chase. It was enthralling to see the brute glide along the path with her preternatural grace, but Sera refused to put her bow away and walked well ahead of us, nervous eyes darting back at every chance.

“Getting serious about mage stuff. Magic. Things,” she was skepticism incarnate. “How about…How about not so much? Just asking. For…not so much magic. Great, yeah?”

My eyes fluttered shut for a moment, a wordless whisper, and Amalia was gone. Strings cut, the body toppled mid-stride behind us, tumbling head over heels down the slope.

“Your Necro-whatever is creepy.”

“Necromancy.”

“Not helping! I don’t understand that stuff. It’s scary to anyone smart enough to think for a second. You shouldn’t be scary. You’re the Inquisitor.”

“I'm definitely not scary, remember? I'm the Dalish girl on her knees for Viuus and Dorian. Dorian, Sera! Scary is the least of my defining features in public opinion, you needn’t worry about that.”

Blackwall and Solas had fallen back, each uncomfortable in his own way.

“You really don’t know?” she scoffed. “Most people are scared. I mean, there’s lots of mages here, but most never see one. Never. You’re weird. And I know you, so you’re not scary, but lots of people don’t know you. Rumors and stuff like that give ‘em something else to think about, fun, sexy kinda stuff. Something isn’t dead bodies and nightmares and crazy, howling corpses.”

Realization dawned on me, and I should have seen it before; the rumors were over the top even for Leliana. I shoved Sera as hard as I could, sending her dancing sideways down the slope.

“Fucking Fen’Harel, you little ass, it was you!”

He laughter was a swarm of bees, buzzing, humming, wild. Then I threw a punch, I really shouldn’t have, but fucking hell. The rogue dodged it easily, even managed to look genuinely contrite as she caught her footing.

“I don’t want you to be just a scary mage.” It was as honest a pout as I'd ever heard.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, I’m not that scaaaaary,” I said, shrugging to let lightning dance along my skin. 

“Oh, ha, ha, real funny. Fine. I’m fine with it. Be scary _and_ a shit. Just so we’re clear though, that corpse stuff is frigging weird.”

She shuddered and then carried on a few paces before looking back over her shoulder at Solas.

“You mad, Elfy?”

“And why should I be mad at you, Sera?”

“Cos I told stories on your Lady Inquisitor.”

“I am not the one you have slandered;” he refused to take the bait.

“Interesting.”

“Your interest is not my concern.”

“That's all right, because I meant boring,” then she turned to Blackwall, “The elf always takes the elf so that bumping bits will mean something.”

It was no surprise to me that _that_ particular insinuation snapped him. “It is not a topic for discussion.”

“Oh, come on. Drop 'em and rebuild the empire,” she fisted both hands and thrust her hips obscenely, adding an orgasmic roar for good measure.

“Sera, no more!” It came out angrier than I'd intended.

“Hmph! Fine. Whatever.”

“Don't concern yourself, vhenan,” Solas said, his hand coming to rest on the small of my back. “She is… apart from herself.”

I was torn. On the one hand, he'd just called me vhenan in public and it sounded delicious. On the other, he knew _exactly_ why I was concerning myself with her words. Elf always takes the elf.

I could understand why Solas preferred the fade, our time there had ruined me for other men. And it felt as real there as it would here, so on what grounds could I complain? He'd spent his life as an ascetic, restraint and denial were in his nature. Likely he sought focus and clarity in his magic through self-abnegation, and I tried to understand what it must cost him to indulge even in the fade. I took a calming breath; I was no less childish than Sera if I boiled it all down to "bumping bits," and I was a pisspoor mage if I couldn't see that what Solas offered was transcendent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In "Sera Was Never," I always liked the line "her tongue tells tales of rebellion" given that she and Solas are always chatting about Red Jenny.
> 
> In my mind, Grand Enchanter Patrick Weekes used the lack of in-game intimacy as a psychological tool for putting us in Lavellan's headspace. How aloof and distant my Solas is from me! How loving and yet mysteriously out of reach! How certain I am that what we have is real! Yet look at all the incredible room for doubt. So I'm just working through the agony I felt between first kiss and breakup, where any little sign of our relationship felt hugely important.


	34. Wicked Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What I imagine went on behind the scenes prior to traveling to Halamshiral. More so than any other Inquisitor, I think Lavellan would have felt a personal stake in this mission.

When I received an invitation to the Winter Palace from Grand Duke Gaspard, Josephine all but grounded me from my other duties. Where she had previously contented herself with lessons over dinner, the strict timetable of preparing for the masquerade superseded all else. From the moment I woke until I fell into bed, Josephine, Leliana, and Vivienne stood at my side.

They offered a masterclass in Orlesian politics— a formal banquet every night for a week so that I could practice my courtly graces. Leliana even pulled Scout Harding from the field for dancing lessons, where I learned to both lead and follow, roles determined by social standing in Orlais. I danced with dignitaries and ambassadors that I scarcely had realized were in Skyhold. 

I knew with certainty that none had danced with an elf before, much less one of such standing that The Game would demand they take a subordinate role. So it was with delicious irony that I found no partner willing to take the lead aside from Vivienne; she had not joined the Inquisition to follow.

Vivienne also arranged portraits of every lord and lady in the great hall so that I might recognize them in person, briefing me on their allegiances and peculiarities until they felt more real than the characters in Varric's novel. If someone derided the Marquis de Montsimmard, I might suspect hostility toward apostates. Should I meet a friend of the de Launcets, I would find common ground through Hawke. I would do well to know Lord Cyril de Montfort held elven women with disdain, but that Comtesse Helene fought for our inclusion at the University of Orlais and Lady Guinevere Volant, now married to a Marcher, had a soft spot for the Dalish.

But I didn’t need anyone to explain Celene Valmont, nor the woman rumored to have been her lover.

There wasn’t an elf in Thedas unaware of the Shem Empress who ordered the slaughter of an entire alienage. Regardless of Dalish disdain for our flat-eared cousins, elven blood flowing freely through the streets of Halamshiral had been an outrage. And from the onset of the civil war, the Dalish had known of Briala.

Her rebellion earned the loyalty of city elves throughout Thedas much as my role as Inquisitor had rallied the Dalish. Truth be told, I had argued to meet Briala rather than be sent to spy on the conclave, but Deshanna had believed there was time for both. If not for the Breach I would have likely carried on to Orlais, but all was forgotten after the Anchor.

Now that the chance to realize that goal had emerged, I’d never felt so alive. If Solas had taught me anything, it was that an elf needn't wear vallaslin to be of The People. If I could prove myself Briala's friend, we might lead our respective factions toward elven reconciliation for the first time since the fall of Arlathan.

So a few nights before the ball, I caught Leliana’s eye as we left the war room.

“Care to walk with me, Nightingale?”

She arched an eyebrow and followed me down to the bailey and beyond the postern gate. As we trudged into the snow, I weighed my options, considered each word, then I laughed despite myself— a spymaster would require no explanation. Leliana understood the political climate better than I; either she would either see the merit of my plan, or its folly. So I jumped in without preamble, trusting her to understand the whys.

“I would let the Empress die.”

Leliana hid her expression in the shadow of her velvet cloak, silent a few moments as she examined the pieces of my puzzle to see how they fit.

“My, my, and here Josie thought you might not appreciate the subtleties of The Game.”

“I appreciate that so long as Celene sits on the throne, the blood spilled in Halamshiral cries out for vengeance. The Dalish will give it, Briala’s people will give it, and those caught in the middle will lash out on all sides. The reign of this Empress will not see peace again.”

“Chaos for Orlais without Corypheus lifting a finger.”

“Exactly so.”

She hummed softly to herself in thought. Creators, she wasn't just playing along. She liked the idea. 

“The Grand Duke is no friend of the elves,” she cautioned.

“If an elf were to help him secure the throne, he might make new friends. But even as an enemy, Gaspard could do no worse than Celene. He would have to wage war on the elves directly to outdo the Empress."

“This is not without risk, Inquisitor. We will need leverage to secure such a position.”

“Perhaps. Vivienne speaks highly of the Chevaliers, if I can earn his respect it may not be needed.”

“Regardless of whether it is used, Inquisitor, such information is always needed.”

“Duly noted,” I laughed. But I couldn’t help but wonder what sort of leverage Leliana might use against me if she believed there was cause. Wondered what circumstances might give her cause. If I hadn't seen the red lyrium stained world where she gave her life for mine, I would have never learned to trust her. 

We walked back to Skyhold in silence; Leliana no doubt considering which of her spies she might position to help uncover hidden truths about Gaspard. As we strode into the great hall, Varric looked up from his chair by the hearth. The glint in his eye recognized that we were up to no good, and he tilted his chin in silent greeting. Leliana and I climbed the stairs to the rookery and while she scribbled a note in haste, I couldn’t help but spy on Solas below.

He was, as usual, staring at a wall.

It was easy to see why the others considered him absent minded or lost in thought, but he was neither absent nor lost. In such times, Solas withdrew into a meditative trance, one foot in the fade to compress time as in a dream. Such was his focus that he could do it in battle, stealing moments of stillness to restore his mana. I'd never seen anything like it.

I tore my gaze away and returned my focus to Leliana, rolling up a slip of parchment to tuck inside a silverite canister at her desk. A soft _coo_ brought a raven down from the rafters and it landed heavily on her arm. Its beak darted forward, nipping at her hair in a way that was oddly affectionate and she smoothed a finger down its throat in return.

Leliana looked to me, indicating that I should hold up my arm. The raven hopped over without any encouragement, the grip of its talons sharp even through my tunic. It rustled its wings to settle, glossy black feathers shimmering with blues and greens as dark as death magic. She secured the canister to the cuff on its leg and then tipped her head to the door behind us, something not quite a smile on her lips.

I stepped out onto the parapet, felt a thrill run through me. Somewhere in Orlais, assassins worked to finalize the details of Celene’s murder, not knowing their success lie with a Dalish girl who threw a raven into the starless sky. When I turned around, Leliana was standing in the door way, arms crossed and red hair spilling out from her hood.

"You have changed so much," she said. "It suits you."

I smiled back. I had changed immeasurably since Haven, but in that moment I had never been more myself— a First is nothing if not a protector of The People.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two things always seemed out of place at the Winter Palance: one, Leliana's sudden and bold suggestion to let the Empress die, and two, that so much blackmail material was so readily available. I read The Masked Empire, and it heavily informed my playthrough as a Dalish-- I'd like to think that a clan that would send a spy to the conclave would be reasonably well informed about the details of the Elven uprising. Of course whatever she's has been filtered through the city elves, so there is definitely a bias/gaps in her knowledge.
> 
> I'd also like to think that Mirhis took the time to chat with the Inquisitor a little more, she was, after all, on a mission to recruit the Dalish.
> 
>  
> 
> **Edited to say hello to all the Reddit peeps, thanks for clicking through!! xo**


	35. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night before Halamshiral.

Not that anyone else would notice, but Solas had freckles.

The faintest, gentlest smattering over his cheeks, dotting the bridge of his nose, and scattering across each eyelid; flecks of wheat on cream. His eyebrows grew low along the edge of his brow, a tawny shade of chestnut that sent me dreaming of how he must have looked as a young man.

There was a little scar on his forehead, almost between his eyes but a little to the left, and another on his chin, cutting through the middle in a way that made it seem cleft. And his ears were perfect, tipping up and curling in just so. When I pulled the soft lobe into my mouth I could feel knots of scar tissue along the outer edge, though I couldn’t even imagine him wearing golden rings like Varric.

Solas once admitted that he was more than twice my age, and while the truth of it was clear in his action, the reality was somewhere far away. Perhaps because I didn’t like to dwell on how that would make him a few years him older than my father, perhaps because he didn’t look it— no dark circles or puffs beneath his eyes, no sleepy droop to his gaze.

He was the most well rested man I’d ever met, and I loved to watch him sleep.

Even more, I loved to wake him.

I kissed the hollow of his cheek, then again at the edge of his mouth. When he didn’t move I flicked my tongue between his lips, teasing just at the corner. He shifted beneath me and I trailed the tip of my tongue across his lips, then down to bite his chin. Solas groaned in his sleep, low like a growl, and his fingernails scraped along my back, over the curve of my ass, and to the bare skin of my thighs.

And because I was wicked, I arched until I could rest a nipple against the fullness of his lower lip. One hand skimmed back up to my hips, my waist, my ribs, to cup my breast as he drew it into his mouth. I couldn’t help but moan and lean into it, my hair falling down around us.

He put both hands around my ribcage, thumbs hooking each breast, to gently push until I was sitting astride him, veilfire bathing me blue.

“It is no wonder they tell stories about you, Inquisitor.”

“Stories get it all wrong,” I drawled, wondering when exactly he’d woken.

“As stories always do."

I bent down to kiss him, to steal the air from his lungs, to taste him in the flesh, to remember that he was real and not some spirit from the fade. His fingers slid down to tighten around my waist, and he gave one, slow roll of his hips in revenge.

“You’re quite drunk.”

“Maybe.”

“Where are your clothes, vhenan?”

“On fire.”

I gestured absently behind me, felt warmth across my back as the hideous pile of discarded finery went up in flames.

“Oh, for—”

He grunted softly, bucking forward to cast what I assume was frost. I wasn’t really paying attention. His chest was bare and warm beneath my fingers, and I was trailing kisses along his clavicle and biting at the fleshier bit near his shoulder.

“I want to suck you,” I breathed.

He twitched beneath my hips and I smirked with satisfaction, sliding myself lower. I made it so far as the waistband of his breeches to run my tongue against the flat of the muscle there, but he hauled me back up. As expected. As ever.

“No.”

“You’re the oldest old man I know.”

“That is likely true,” he laughed. “But you are impossibly drunk, and I will not take advantage of that.”

“You won’t take advantage of anything. You’re like this very old, very not taking advantage sort of elf.”

“Exactly how much did you drink?”

“Enough for Blackwall’s story. About killing puppies. Enough t’wanna have you once before you leave me.”

“What?”

I pressed my forehead against his collarbone, trying to shut out the pain in his whisper, the pain in knowing that he wouldn’t argue.

“You think I don’t know, but I know. About my sylvanwood ring. That’s why. To remember me.”

“Now you are talking nonsense.”

“You’re trying to hide, but I found you. You have my ring, but you can keep it.”

He was quiet, rubbing small circles into my back with his thumb. But it was alright. I’d known since _I could hardly abandon you now_ that later was coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Updated to say:** If you'd like to see a gorgeous, NSFW take on this scene from Deedy Loves Cake [YOU'RE WELCOME.](http://deedylovescake.tumblr.com/post/114158205329/hey-so-i-redrew-that-thing-from-last-night-because)


	36. We All Wear Masks, My Dear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The nutcracker uniforms were just a bad dream, the nutcracker uniforms were just a bad dream, the nutcracker uniforms were just a bad dream.

Though we arrived at the Chateau of Duke Bastien de Ghislain around midday, Vivienne thought we scarcely had time to ready ourselves. When she threw open the vestibule door, it came as a shock to see the sheer number of elven servants lined up to greet us, heads down, ears up, and barefaced under their half-masks.

I shrank against Solas, unnerved. I’d never seen so many city elves in one place before. If it bothered him to see our people brought low he gave no indication, but he rested one hand on the back of my neck, his grip firm to calm me. That particular touch always reminded me of the time he’d saved me, held me down in battle to cast a spell above my head. It had since become his silent signal, _I’ve got you, vhenan._

Cullen’s armored boots echoed on the marble tile, and we came to a halt by the fountains where Vivienne had very nearly killed the Marquis Alphonse on my behalf. Now it was filled with the better part of the Inquisition, road weary and our day only just begun.

The steward stepped forward to greet Madame de Fer before directing a handful of his fellows to trundle off our luggage while another group of servants swept in to settle the lot of us into our quarters. Hand on hip, Vivienne spun to face me.

“My dear, we must depart for the Winter Palace in less than five hours, we have not a moment to spare. Just as I have always trusted your handling of the Inquisition, I do hope that you shall now trust me to ensure your success at the masquerade.”

“I’d be barefoot and lost without you, Vivienne.”

“Quite.” Her eyes almost imperceptibly found and flickered away from the place where Solas had me by the nape.

“Lucie shall see to your toilette, and, Solas, dear, if you will follow Maël— although I daresay there is time to reconsider.”

Solas withdrew his hand to clasp it with the other behind his back, responding before I had the chance.

“I can only agree with the Grand Enchanter. Your insistence that I accompany you tonight is ill-advised.”

Nothing surprised me more than Vivienne and Solas working together against me, but there it was and so it had been for days. While the Grand Duke had extended seven invitations to the Inquisition, protocol had determined I would need Cullen, Leliana, Josephine, and Vivienne from the start. That left only two others to join me, and I’d chosen Dorian and Solas.

No one objected to Dorian, he was noble after all, but everyone considered Solas a strategic mistake, even (and perhaps especially) Solas himself. Without titles or holdings, he could do nothing to bolster my reputation among the lords and ladies at court and so my invitation seemed wasted on him.

Leliana had given me a dark look, and I knew that she understood— the symbolism of a Dalish Inquisitor with her flat-eared lover would not be lost on Briala. With Solas at my side, she would understand that I had a very real stake in the well being of all elves.

“It’s not up for discussion. If the veil is thin or corrupted in the Winter Palace, I’ll need you,” I looked to Solas and then Vivienne, “But in all else I will defer to your judgement.”

It was a flimsy excuse, but it would have to do. The fewer people who knew what I intended for Celene, the better. I could see from their expressions they both thought I was a besotted fool, but so be it. I was that too.

“Very well, my dear, I will hold you to it.”

In short order, Lucie took me from the hall to the upper apartments, where I let myself be a rag-doll: limp and compliant so that whatever must be done could be done in haste. I was dunked in a hot bath and scrubbed as if I couldn’t be trusted to do it myself, then toweled and swathed in a dressing gown as two more servants arrived.

They rubbed lotions into my skin, trimmed and filed and sculpted the nails on my hands and feet, painted each one with paragon’s luster. One woman rune-dried my hair, then used a heated iron to sculpt it in waves. She braided and twisted and pinned and tied it into something both elegant and wild, a touch I presume was meant to honor my roots.

And then, because it was not customary for foreigners to wear masks in Orlais, they painted my face.

My initial reaction had been so visceral that Lucie took in a sharp breath of surprise, her tiny paintbrush suspended midair. It was like something out of a Dalish nightmare, being surrounded by barefaced women of The People tasked with burying my vallaslin in shemlen tradition. I remembered my promise to Vivienne and held myself still, but it was too much.

I unfocused my gaze and slipped into the Fade, just floating and far away.

Eventually I was shaken back to reality in the midst of being corseted and bustled into a gown stained with dragon’s blood and trimmed in glittering scales; Madame de Fer would be sure to tell the tale of how I’d slain the beast myself. It was strange to see my body bent into curves, the corset creating cleavage and a waist where I’d had none before. Finally, I was laced into heeled sandals, which I’d been practicing for all week.

Lucie held something in her hands and looked at me with trepidation.

“Yes?”

For a moment I thought the glittering silverite chains were bracelets, but then I saw the hooks and studs and realized that they were earrings.

Fuck Orlais.

I took a deep breath. I’d been shot with an arrow before, I could handle this. 

“You’ll need someone to pierce me.”

Apparently, that contingency had already been planned for and Lucie had a roll of fine needles at the ready. I could cast enough cold to dull the sensation, and she made quick work of it, but even the knowledge that it would come undone with a healing potion did little to console me. Elven ears were something of a fetish for the shemlen, and this was meant to play into that every bit as much as the corset and the makeup.

The servants were beside themselves with relief that it had all been done in time and eager for my praise, but in truth I was speechless at the sight of a flat-ear in the mirror. I’d become someone else entirely, my face as smooth and featureless as a porcelain doll. The paint covered my vallaslin completely, leaving no trace of the sylvanwood branches that crossed my throat, my shoulders, my chest… 

I stood transfixed and more than a little horrified, completely unaware that Vivienne had joined me until a flash of light caught the golden curve of her mask beside me. She put a hand on my shoulder, the compassion in her touch a genuine surprise.

“We all wear masks my dear. The Orlesians codify this truth, make it real. They believe that by covering their faces, they can become their truest selves unmasked.”

The honesty of it broke the spell, and I found myself in the reflection where a stranger had stood before. I remembered the way even a pair of boots once seemed to trouble me. This was a little more complicated, but no different at its core. This was who I needed to be if I were to put Gaspard on the throne; a barefoot Dalish girl would hold no sway at court.

“Thank you, Vivienne.”

“Besides,” she continued, “not everyone can wear a mask of such ravishing beauty.”

I laughed, uncertain whether it was flattery or kindness, but indifferent either way. There was nothing beautiful about the barefaced girl in the mirror, but she was ready to play The Game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I came very close to not posting this chapter, because it deviates from our canon-understanding of the Ball, but I love Vivienne's in-game banter about masks, and thought it something she would be very likely to say to my Lavellan.


	37. Wicked Hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exploring a little bit of what a legit alliance between Gaspard and the elves would look like, rather than the strong arm option from the game. You win more flies with honey...

By the time I’d left my apartments, the rest of the Inquisition had been ferried to the ball. I would travel alone in the Duke de Ghislain’s personal carriage, a coupe inlaid with hammered silverite, intricately runed with frost and fire, and pulled by two dappled gray horses. Lucie escorted me so far as the gate, where there must have been more than a dozen elven men for my retinue, a coachman, postilion, outriders, footmen, and an honor guard all in the regalia of House Ghislain.

“This has been our privilege, your worship,” said Lucie, reminding me that none in Orlais had ever seen an elf hold any power at all.

They’d likely never even considered it a possibility. I wanted them to feel proud, not of me, but of The People. We could do so much more than beg for scraps and live in shemlen shadows. Perhaps when the night was over they would have a reason to believe in something more.

I took care making my way down the steps, remembering Vivienne’s instructions on how to hold my head high and shoulders back, how to let my hips roll forward, how to shift my weight to the balls of my feet, how to keep my fingers curled and twisted in the Orlesian style. If I couldn’t carry myself like nobility in private, I’d crumble under public scrutiny.

One of the footman bowed deeply at my approach and offered a gloved hand to help me up the small step into the carriage. Inside were two small benches covered over in quilted velveteen, and I sat gingerly on the very edge. The corseting of my dress made it almost impossible to relax my posture, and the ridiculous cut of it left me feeling as if I might spill out at any moment.

And then we were away, a gentle rattle of motion as we sped through the streets of Halamshiral. I tried to glimpse it through the frosted windows, but the city passed by in a blur. Not that any relics of its elven past would remain, but to actually be in the place where my ancestors had finally put down their burdens…

Sooner than I anticipated, the carriage came to a halt and a footman threw open the small door.

He proffered a hand to assist, and I took it lightly to balance my weight, not yet trusting myself in heels. I righted myself on the smooth paving stones below, and he swept into a low bow.

Josephine stood by the entrance to the palace grounds along with a complement of the Grand Duke’s men, and I strode up to meet them. Together we proceeded into the palace gardens, the guard falling into line and saluting as we arrived.

“It is a great honor to meet you, Inquisitor Lavellan.”

Gaspard looked nothing like the poncy lord in the portraits I’d seen, war had leaned him. Instead of lace and frills all soft in the middle, there stood a well muscled warrior armed in volcanic aurum. His face and scalp were shaved, but already dark with new growth, and I hadn’t expected his voice to sound so rich and smooth.

“The rumors coming out of the Western Approach say you battled an army of demons. Imagine what the Inquisition could accomplish with the full support of the rightful Emperor of Orlais.”

“And which was the rightful one, again? I keep getting them confused.”

“The handsome, charming one, of course, my lady,” he said with a laugh and a bow.

I grinned despite myself. Vivienne told me that Gaspard detested The Game, but certainly it took a measure of skill for any shem to charm a Dalish.

“My lady, are you prepared to shock the court by walking into the grand ball with a hateful usurper?”

This was also a joke; the real shock was that elven women were servants and whores, not honored guests of the Grand Duke de Chalons. But masked in makeup and human dress up clothes, I felt far away from it all, and when he offered his hand I took it.

Gaspard tucked my arm through his and drew me to his side. We strolled through the garden, speaking quietly and well aware of the ears around us. Under the ivy trellis of a bay window, we relaxed against a secluded corner of the palace wall. He cleared his throat.

“As a friend, perhaps there is a matter you could undertake this evening. This elven woman, Briala. I expect that she intends to disrupt the negotiations.”

“I would very much like consider you my friend, but rest assured that I am the only elven woman that should concern you tonight.”

“I have heard many rumors about your…friends, my lady.”

I twisted against Gaspard to peer up at his mask, and one hand found its way to my waist. Through the hollows of his mask I saw his eyes flicker low, and I reminded myself to thank Sera later. I leaned in to stroke his fox fur stole.

“Then you’ve heard how such friends enjoy my enthusiastic support.” 

He chuckled softly. “And what sort of man would you consider a friend, Lady Lavellan?”

“Let me speak plainly. I care nothing for human politics and even less for The Game, but I would call any man that would respect my people a true friend.”

“I detest The Game, but if we do not play it well, our enemies will make us look like villains.”

“Then I hope we can play well together, my lord.”

“We’re keeping the court waiting, Inquisitor. Shall we?” 

I followed him to the marble steps, and all eyes were upon us as we ascended to the palace door. I was thankful for Lucie’s heavy makeup to hide my deep blush; all around, nobles whispered of the elven savage, Gaspard’s joke. Yet he looked delighted to be thumbing his nose at the imperial court with a rabbit on his arm, and I held my head high.

When we were announced together, he leaned down to laugh in my ear, “Did you see their faces? Priceless.”

We stood at the foot of the stair as the toastmaster announced the remainder of the Inquisition, a neutral smile on my lips as each of them passed me by. Then my spine turned to ice.

“The Lady Inquisitor’s elven servant, Solas.”

Solas came down the stairs, dressed in the regalia of House Ghislain. He stopped before me and Gaspard, swept into a low bow, and continued on his way. My heart stopped; he’d been my godsdamned footman, head downturned so that I couldn’t see his face. How had I not felt his magic, how had I not…

It wasn’t what Leliana and I had discussed, it wasn’t what— Gods, I wasn’t breathing.

I leaned into Gaspard to still the trembling of my arm, I was shaking with rage. I’d penned the announcement for Solas myself: scholar of the fade and chief advisor to the Inquisition. My mind was racing, trying to determine who had made the change and why. Some disgruntled lord? Celene? An enemy of Briala?

No, it could only have been Solas himself. Or Vivienne. No one else could have procured Ghislain’s livery or arranged for him to slip in among my retinue.

I had no time to think on it; the Grand Duke was leading me up the stairs for my introduction to Celene. We bowed together and exchanged pleasantries by route, polite turns of phrase that Vivienne had taught me a week before. It was exactly the sort of structured conversation I needed to flee my thoughts, and in a blur it was over.

Gaspard took his leave, and before I’d even advanced three paces, I spotted Leliana leaning against the banister of the upper level. She inclined her head an a subtle signal, then disappeared into the crowd. I took the steps as gracefully as I could, weaving through the nobles to follow her.

As I passed a bay window, a hand slipped around my corseted waist and I was dragged into the shadows behind a heavy statue. A wave of mana displaced my magic before I could react, and I felt a scorching heat against my back, needy fingers digging into my hips, breath on my neck.

“I do adore the heady blend of power, intrigue, danger, and sex that permeates these events.” Something hot and wet slid against the sensitive skin of my newly pierced ear. “You’ve been scheming, vhenan.”

I tried to twist around to face him, but firm hands held me tight.

“Fenehedis, Solas!”

He bit at my neck and, truly, I had no resources left for anger or even speech. I melted against him. His lips brushed my ear, words murmured straight into the heart of me so that no one else could hear.

“You will have far more success seducing the Grand Duke without announcing your lover at court, da’len. And Briala knows better than most how swiftly those in power will betray the ones they profess to love. I am an asset to you in neither case, and so have let myself disappear.”

He was doing the thing he did with Cole, taking tiny pieces and hints of a whole and piecing it all together without ever asking a single question, without ever pausing for clarification, without judgement. His hand slid up to the back of my neck and he held me fast, a pulse of mana surged into me.

“I watched you from the window,” he whispered. “You play a very pretty Game.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love, love, love, love, love Gaspard. Which isn't to say I think he's a good person, only that he's a great character. While trying to keep true to all of his in-game dialogue, I wanted to explore the idea of winning him to your side rather than simply strong arming him into allying with Briala. He's not really a playboy, but I don't think he's above a little casual seduction either. I think he'd be open a concession like "being nice to the elves" in exchange for the Inquisition putting him on the throne.


	38. Dance With Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What impressed me most about the masquerade was how Briala spoke of buckets of blood staining the marble, how Florianne's men drew their blades on the dance floor, and how a free for all broke out in the ballroom while the Inquisitor took down the Grand Duchess. Yet in the end, the band continues to play and toasts are made. Those Orlesians are Effed. Up.

Perhaps there was a little Lace in Scout Harding after all, the elegant steps she’d taught me earned the applause of every noble at court after I danced with the Grand Duchess. But it was Amalia’s dancing that earned their fearful respect when I waltzed back in with her corpse an hour later.

Whatever other else was said about me, the lords of Orlais would remember that I was first and foremost a mage.

When the music stopped and her body dropped to the floor unmasked, Gaspard walked across the ballroom with steely resolve to offer his hand. I’d just killed the Grand Duchess de Chalons and desecrated her corpse; by making such a gesture in full view of the court, he denounced his sister’s treason in no uncertain terms. It was also a tacit endorsement of the Inquisition and, perhaps, a sign of goodwill to the elves. He led me to the center of the floor and spun me to face him, one hand on my waist to bring us close together as we waited for the music to start.

Gaspard was smiling beneath his mask.

The first step was his, driving me back and signaling that he would take the lead. He was the Emperor of Orlais, after all. So I consented to follow, quick steps of retreat to suit his unrelenting press forward. The dance was unfamiliar, but Gaspard’s decisive movements left no room for confusion. I let the pull of his arm or the weight of his thigh against mine guide me, the sheer difference in size between us making it easy for him to spin and twist me as he pleased.

After the timbre of our negotiations, the sensuality of the dance came as no surprise, but when Gaspard dipped me back to end it with a kiss I was caught totally unawares. It was no more than a chaste symbol of our alliance, to be sure, but I’d never felt human lips on my own or the stubble of a beard, and it caught the breath in my throat. Yet I forced myself to relax in his arms; from Vivienne's lessons, I understood that any hint of resistance might be interpreted by the court as a sign an uneasy alliance.

He lifted me back to my feet, and I dropped into another curtsey.

“It has been an honor, Inquisitor.”

“Your Imperial Majesty.”

There were more dances to follow, allowing me to lead with a general and a marquise, as well as endless rounds of toasting— to the Emperor, to the Inquisition, to victory against Corypheus, to Orlais, and even to the elves. Somewhere along the way, Dorian slipped me a glass of champagne, and I fought the bubbles to down it in a single draught when I tasted that he’d laced it with elfroot and Amrita. We were all exhausted from channeling magic without our staves and the physical strain of battle, but I found the emotional toll unusually difficult.

I’d killed more than any First should, but without earth to soak up the violence and wind to blow away its stench, death seemed more grisly in the Winter Palace. There were pools of blood on the dance floor, rivers of it trickling down the stairs. Bodies clad in royal sea silk were piled up by the balustrade, dead servants in the galley, and the courtyard fountain ran red from my last strike against Florianne.

Yet the nobles paid no heed to the crimson soaking the hem of their gowns or the splatter of it on their fine shoes, and the masquerade continued as if the assassination had been no more than an amusing diversion; the slaughter of their peers in the ballroom a mere inconvenience. The Orlesians were sturdier folk than anyone gave them credit for.

Sturdier than me, perhaps.

I’d thrown off my sandals in battle and my feet were stained with blood, my gown was damp with it. I’d been shot in the shoulder when Florianne had trapped us in the courtyard, and though Vivienne had been quick with her healing, the mess of it remained. By midnight I was lightheaded despite the restorative potion, or perhaps it was just the restriction of my corset combined with the choking overabundance of lavender perfume.

I stole away and slipped out onto the balcony to catch my breathe, only to be startled by an immediate voice behind me.

“Here at last I find our absent hero, hidden away despite the efforts of all Orlais to find you.”

It was Lady Morrigan, a fair sight less bloody than me. I tensed, unsure of where we stood. Without her assistance, I wouldn’t have gained access to the servants’ quarters shy of burning down the door, and while she had no reason to suspect that I intended for Celene to die, she might be angry that I’d failed to save her in return. The Empress had provided the mage with safe harbor and prestige, it would not be a stretch to imagine there had been friendship as well.

“The elves raise glasses in your honor, even Gaspard drunkenly toasts to a new era, ’tis quite the spectacle.”

Her voice was light and careless, unaffectedly so, and I tentatively dismissed my concerns.

“Everyone suddenly wants to talk to the elves. You, at least, I’m glad to see.”

“Then I have happy news, as you shall be seeing a great deal more of me. By Imperial degree, I have been named liaison to the Inquisition. Gaspard wishes to offer any and all aid to the one who supported his ascent to the throne.”

She dipped her head and the black fringe of her hair fell across one eye. Even at rest, her aura seemed wild and elemental, but with a current of something darker that I suspected to be blood magic. We didn't lack for mages at Skyhold, but I had a fondness for apostates.

“Welcome to the Inquisition, Morrigan.”

“A most gracious response.”

Unlike the rest of Orlais, she had no taste for idle chatter and took her leave with only a mischievous smirk in parting. I turned my gaze back to the night sky, bracing both hands on the railing. One jump. One quick jump and I could slip into the gardens below to feel grass between my toes instead of blood slicked marble.

That’s all I needed. Just a few moments under the stars, with a tree against my back. I peered over the railing, contemplating the distance. If it weren’t for the dress, I could manage a clean landing…

“I’m not surprised to find you out here. Thoughts?”

Solas lowered himself to the banister beside me, resting on his elbows and sounding for all the world like a Keeper who’d just finished up a lesson, _Thoughts?_ For now, he was not the same man who’d cornered me in the hall. I nearly scrubbed the back of my hand across my face and only just caught myself, remembering the ridiculous Orlesian make-up.

I redirected the nervous energy to push myself upright and consider the question. I’d found a man tied naked to a bed, saved a fellow elf from a harlequin assassin, closed a fade rift, let Florianne kill the Empress, forged a truce between Briala and Gaspard, danced with the newly minted Emperor, and invited a suspicious mage to join my advisers at Skyhold, all while dressed like a shemlen princess.

Even by Inquisition standards, it had been a very taxing day and the very last thing I wanted to think about. There would be so much thinking about it later.

“We achieved all our goals, I’m enjoying the moment of peace while it lasts.”

“You should,” he laughed. “They’re fleeting enough. Hang onto them when you can.”

Solas reached for me then, sliding his hand across my back and surprising me with a curious look.

“Come, before the band stops playing, dance with me.”

It was the last thing I’d expected him to say.

He pulled back and stepped into a bow, this time heads up, ears up, eyes meeting mine as he offered me his gloved hand. The same hand I’d failed to recognize twice already. He seemed so utterly at ease in his servant’s livery, as if it weren’t the most insulting costume in the entire world, as if weren’t an affront to our people.

I twisted away from the edge of the balcony and tried to scowl as if considering his offer, but a smile betrayed me.

“I’d love to.”

With all the swagger of a proper lord, Solas drew me into an Orlesian waltz. Something of a change came over him, this regal air that belied his lowly dress. It was in the way he held his head, the grace of his movements, the surety of each step. Where Gaspard had led by force, Solas led as if by right.

I felt a wave of satisfaction in knowing that Solas considered himself to have every right; I was his vhenan.

The weight of the day lifted, and for a moment it seemed almost like we were in the fade— light and free. Enchanting music drifted up from the ballroom, candlelight bounced across the balcony, and strange voices in foreign tongues echoed through the distance.

At last a muffled round of applause signaled the end of the waltz and Solas swept my arm above my head to spin me ‘round. The whirl of it jangled the unfamiliar silverite on my ears, and suddenly I felt very self conscious of it. Of it all, the ridiculous fit of my gown and its crushing tightness, the heavy makeup, the hair escaping my knotted crown, the glimmering talons on my fingers, my awkward dance steps and the blood on my bare feet.

I involuntarily touched the earring, and it just seemed so real. The piercing, the pretending.

Without a word, Solas tugged off his gloves with his teeth and set to work, unfastening the posts and gently pulling loose the hooks of each ring, six all told. He let the silverite fall to the floor, discarded the way he’d pluck some piece of lint from my shirt. Then he ferreted out the pins in my hair and was rid of them the same way. His fingers began untangling the mess of it so it fell down around my shoulders as he backed me against the balcony wall.

He caught my face in both hands and kissed me, well and truly. No magic, the coolness of his tongue against mine. I pushed back, stretching up on my toes to lean into him— he stood so tall in his boots, I’d never seen him in shoes at all. I scraped my painted nails beneath the tall collar of his jacket to find skin, rolled myself against him.

Solas groaned and dropped both hands to my waist where I was cinched so tight that his fingers nearly met along my spine. One hand moved to cup my ass and the other began slowly bunching up my skirts until I could feel the cool night air at my hip.

“Little kingmaker,” he whispered as his knee nudged my thighs apart.

His hand slid down to the the back of my knee, pulling to bend and hitch it up around his waist as he rocked against me. He brought my other leg up the same way, and I crossed my ankles behind his back to anchor myself against him. At last I’d gained a bit of leverage and arched high enough to catch the tip of his ear in my mouth. I groaned into the wonderful point of it when he ran his tongue over the tops of my breasts, felt a wisp of worry that he’d taste the makeup that covered the crossing of June’s branches in between.

I reared back to look down at him, his face buried in the cleavage I’d never had before. He seemed to take perverse pleasure in the shem costume, and I rubbed his ears between my fingers to pull him closer, feeling twisted up with lust and want despite the strangeness. His hands were busy beneath my thighs and then I heard it, the clink of a belt buckle, and my heart stopped.

Was this happening? Gods, here?

Another clink of metal on marble and his belt was on the balcony floor. My fingers fumbled at the slippery silk knot of his sash, and he snapped the fine thread of my smalls to pull them right off. He caught me in another kiss, mana surging with it now, and trailed a finger over the edge of my ear. I felt another a swell of magic as he healed the damage of Lucie’s needle.

He held my face in his hands, one thumb stroking my cheekbone and his eyes searching.

“You are so beautiful.”

I smiled down at him and laughed; he’d never said that before. He’d called me a goddess, he’d called me a wonder, he’d called me his mystery, his undoing, his heart, but never that. It seemed crazy, that covered in paint and blood and make-believe that he would think to do so now.

“Ar lath ma, you strange man.”

“Ar lath ma,” he echoed.

Perhaps I should have expected it, but the moment of tenderness had given him time to still his passion. Solas breathed deeply into my neck to kiss it one last time, rolling the flesh into his mouth to leave a mark; he was fond of that. He pushed at my hips and I unlocked my legs so he could set me gently on my feet.

"I cannot have you in the fade soon enough, vhenan."

The heat in his voice was enough to make the world seem dull, and I pushed a parting kiss into him with my mana.

He’d only just finished with his sash and belt when there was a flash of motion in the corner of my vision. I turned my head in time to see Cullen walk out onto the balcony. He caught sight of us and managed a strangled cough; I was no doubt rumpled enough to look like much more had happened.

“Oh, ah. Pardon me, Inquisitor. We are set to march.” He tilted his head away, eyes averted, cheeks pink.

“Thank you, Commander,” Solas responded smoothly when it was clear the cat had my tongue.

Cullen turned on his heel and was gone, and I let out a ragged sigh as I raked my fingers through my hair to tame it into a knot. I readjusted the bodice of my gown where it had been pulled dangerously low, smoothed the layers of my skirt.

“You’re a terrible, terrible man.”

“I know.”

He snatched his gloves up from the floor and carefully pulled them back on, meticulously tucking the sleeves of his jacket down their length. But for a smudge of pink at his ear and mouth, he looked utterly unbesmirched. I licked my thumb to tidy him, drawing it along his lower lip and wiping at the corners, but when he met my eyes there was something sad about him. I wanted so badly to make that sadness go away, so I stroked his lip with my thumb once more, traced my fingers along the sharp line of his jaw.

He offered me his arm, and I took it, once again grateful for the heavy makeup to hide my blush as we moved through the thinning crowd of nobles. Solas wasn't playing the role of my servant now, but my lord, his head high and posture relaxed. I thought, not for the first time, that his mother had named him well.

As we strode through the arcade to exit the palace, I caught a glimpse of us in a long mirror and froze, forgetting how nearly alien I looked in the corset and make-up. Solas paused to indulge my wounded vanity as I regarded the strange elf in the mirror. But then I smirked to see an ivy branch of vallaslin peeking through at my cheek where he'd rubbed it, a patch of Dalish peeping through the mask.

"It suits you."

"What?" I turned up to look at him, somewhat confused.

"The gown," he clarified. "You carry yourself like a queen."

"Your flat-eared queen," I teased, stomping gently on his boot with a bloody toe. 

He tugged me on down the hall and we'd made it a few paces before the weight of the word sunk in, and I wondered how many Dalish had flung it at him in earnest. Wondered if he'd ever even tried to join a clan before, he'd certainly told enough tales about being driven away from them.

"Solas, I didn't mean...."

He pulled me closer as we walked and chuckled under his breath, one hand finding its way to the back of my neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which I continue the fantasy that Gaspard and Briala could be persuaded to dial down their antagonism had the Inquisitor gone into the situation with diplomacy and charm rather than blackmail-guns a blazing. I truly get the bad blood between the two, and that Gaspard would prefer to rule without anyone's oversight, but they're both damn savvy at the Game and share a grudging respect for each other. I think Gaspard could be persuaded to see that a bit of pro-elven policy is a small price to pay for an empire, and that Briala knows you can't ride a spooked horse while whipping it too.
> 
> Also: my all mage party was leveled up like nobody's business. We fought in our formal wear.


	39. Every False Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of Halamshiral, because, seriously, that was a rough night for everyone.

Cullen had concerns about having left Skyhold with so few for its defense and began marching his…our troops home that night. I would have happily let them make camp in Halamshiral, but Cullen very nearly insisted and I didn’t care to press the issue. He probably though I’d made enough poor decisions for the evening; he'd been aghast that I’d let the Empress die, and gods knew what he thought after finding me with Solas on the balcony.

The Duke de Ghislain had extended an invitation for us to stay the night in his chateau and I accepted without reservation. I’d heard of Bastien's poor health before even meeting Vivienne, but knew she would not allow herself the luxury of staying if left to her own devices. Not that I had to feign exhaustion to justify myself, I was by no means prepared for the long ride to Skyhold when my fatigue might give her excuse enough to indulge.

I was pleasantly surprised to discover she’d arranged for me and Solas to share suite of our own— I half expected her to bunk him in the servant’s quarters after their stunt at the Palace. That she even acknowledged our relationship felt like an achievement of its own. The quarters were opulent and we arrived to find our armor and staves arranged on a rack, as well as a fire-runed bath drawn in the adjacent room.

Solas led me into the steamy chamber and knelt to unlace my corset. I didn’t have the hips to hold it, so when the last row of ribbon had pulled free the gown fell in a pile at my feet. I was absolutely caked in crimson underneath, mostly from the arrow I’d shouldered, but also from a forgotten gash in my side that had been healed at the same time and the remnants of my second dance with the Grand Duchess.

Gods, I’d killed a woman and danced with her bloody corpse. I’d been so high from the battle, it didn’t seem…

“I can’t,” I sprang away from where he crouched by the tub, twisting to put my back against the wall.

“What?”

“I can’t do this. I can't get in that thing and soak in Florianne’s blood.”

I fumbled with the latch at the tall window and pushed it open. There was only a short drop to the ground, no higher than the front stairs of Skyhold. Solas narrowed his eyes in confusion.

“What are you doing?”

“I have to wash this _away,_ ” I gestured vaguely to myself, “We passed that little creek just down the way and—”

“You can't be serious.”

I laughed. “Dirth ma, do you think I’d ever had a bath before Haven? I can’t pretend that sitting in a fancy bucket of filth is normal, Solas, not today..”

“Ma nuvenin,” he said, picking up his discarded jacket.

“No, no. Stay, please. I won’t be gone long. Enjoy the bath, they took the time to draw it.” 

They. The elven servants. Alive, but all those elves in the palace… 

“You shouldn’t go by yourself, da’len.” 

“Come if you’ll bathe too, but isala ma’lath din’hahren.” 

I jumped, not waiting to see if he would follow. It did not surprise me that by the time I’d picked my way to the creek I was still alone. Solas had not undressed for me since the night at the hot spring, and though I’d seen his nakedness countless times in the Fade I could never get over the strangeness of how he eluded me in the waking world. 

_Things have always been easier for me in the Fade,_ he’d said. 

Soon I found a defensible stretch of the creek where I could bathe in the shelter of a rocky outcropping, and I cast wards in three directions to be safe. A fire rune upstream knocked off the chill, and I crouched with my back to the craggy wall. 

The stream was shallow but fast, and that’s all that mattered. I scrubbed my hands and feet with a fistful of pebbles and the darkness was a mercy, surely the water ran red. All those dead elves, a whole city of dead elves, a whole history of dead elves. Mythal, please help Briala do something good with this. Please let the Dalish see reason. Please… 

It took a good deal of mud and silt to scrub the oily slickness of the makeup from my face and neck, but when I could see the vallaslin at my breast once more I was at peace. I rinsed my mouth and spat out the taste of champagne and elfroot, then banished the wards in parting. 

Whatever Dorian might suspect, the Dalish didn’t often run naked through the moonlight, though it was certainly not an unfamiliar feeling. I didn’t exactly have moonlight at my back, there was a blush of dawn on the horizon, but it felt marvelous to fly across the field back to the chateau bare under the open sky and free from every false thing: no costumes, no pretending, no Inquisition, no Game, no potions for feigned strength. 

Just my own power and my own skin. 

By the time I made it back to the chateau I’d set myself right; exhausted, but whole. It was easy enough to scramble up to the window thanks to the many footholds in the brickwork, and Solas had not closed the window. The tub had been drained, and I smiled to know it had not been wasted when my foot found a damp towel on the floor. Even in the darkness, I could see a few of the bottles on the toilette had been moved as well. 

Solas loved that sort of things; scented oils and perfumed water. Whether the handsome leather belt that he wore or the buttery crumb of a rose scented cake, he had an appreciation for craftsmanship of any kind. When I once derided the expense of a rug brought to my room in Skyhold, he’d taken me to the memory of a village in the Fade where that very rug had been made. The nobility sustained their entire way of life, and the villagers wove their own history into each rug. 

I stopped in the doorway to lean against the frame; Solas was kneeling on just such a rug in the center of the bedroom, head bowed, eyes open but unseeing. A flame burned in his palm, the only light in the darkness, and he wore two thin obsidian chains around each wrist and threaded through his slender fingers. I knew them to be enchanted, but to what end I could not discern. 

Whenever I saw him like that, I felt the years between us; his magic was _old._ I might have an edge on him in battle, I had a deeper arsenal of offensive and debilitating spells, but there was no question that he was the more powerful mage. He’d simply invested his skillset elsewhere, delving into the mysteries of the fade and his own inner world; in the truest sense a mystic. 

The room thrummed with his magic, caressing my skin. 

He knew that I’d come back, the Anchor bled too much magic for any mage to ignore. His head tipped up and the fade fled the grey of his eyes. The fire died in his palm exactly as candles in the room sprang to life. He flexed his fingers to shrug off the chains, pocketing them in the folds of his robe as he stood. 

“Do you miss your clan?” 

The question caught me off guard, Solas very rarely asked anything about my past; but then again, I didn't often run out into the night in a fit of Dalish panic. I smiled to reassure him that I was not at my wit's end. 

“Yes, of course.” 

“Will you return to them when this is over?” 

This question surprised me even more; we had only ever discussed the future in terms of Corypheus and his defeat. Cassandra had asked me the same thing once before, but with Solas I couldn't hide the truth behind the Inquisition. 

“I was never meant to return.” 

For once, I had completely surprised him. He joined me at the door, sliding his hands around my bare hips and peering down with the most dreadful curiosity spreading over his features. 

“My little sister is a mage,” I offered, and his eyes narrowed sharply. 

“Your Keeper would turn her out?" 

“Not the way some would, not like Minaeve. Her Keeper,” I bit my lip. “Her Keeper was a coward. Magic is not so common among the Dalish that any clan can afford to hoard or squander it. Minaeve would have been a blessing somewhere. At any rate, Deshanna is young enough to train up a new First, and I….” 

I laughed to divert him, this conversation would not end well. 

“Come to bed with me, Solas.” 

I slid my fingers into the waistband of his breeches, letting my knuckles graze along the smooth skin below his navel. I fisted the linen and took a step back, forcing him to either follow or allow me to tug open his breeches. He pushed me forward, toppling me into the bed to pin me beneath his weight. With a twist, he wound the coverlet around us like a cocoon and all but dragged me into the fade. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As per the Dalish wiki, "Isala ma’lath din’hahren" would literally be, "need my love not an elder" but I'mma say, conversationally, it would mean something more like "I'd rather have a lover than a chaperone.”
> 
> Of course, Solas in meditation is inspired by his gorgeous tarot card, and my favorite rendition comes from [Me Za Me Ro.](http://me-za-me-ro.tumblr.com/post/105708984866/solas-the-hermit-bigger-image-oh-god-im-so) It's such a deliciously elusive aspect to his personality I wish we saw more of in-game. Swoon.


	40. Unwashed Apostate Hobo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The banter between Dorian, Vivienne, and Solas is some of the best in-game, but when the Inquisitor's an elven mage it's absolutely cringe-worthy.

I woke wrapped in the warmth of him, sunlight streaming through windows. It was nearly midday, and we hadn’t moved an inch since falling into bed, still perfectly twirled up in the heavy blanket. I never slept so well as when I slept with him, the way he held me so damn close, cradled to his chest and legs hooked around me. Sometimes, when I didn’t make a clean step from the fade, I’d think for a moment I was still with my clan, piled up in an aravel with my lethallin back before the world had come undone.

I wouldn’t be going back but, perhaps, going forward wasn’t so farfetched. It was silly to read too much in the simple questions he’d asked the night before, but Solas was a man of so few words that I couldn't quite help myself. I crushed the idea down into something manageable, something forgettable. So long as the threat of Corypheus remained, my future could take the shape of red lyrium and a Solas who would die to save me.

“How can you already be so lost in thought, vhenan?”

“That bad?” I huffed a little breath of surprise. "I was in Redcliffe...

His fingers ran along my spine and, slowly, he sank the fullness of his mana into mine.

“Where are you now?”

“Right here,” I whispered. His mana flickered back, a kiss and nothing more.

“Shall we be about our day?”

We took the time to do a few of our morning meditations— a quick run-through of staffwork to bring our auras into balance and ensure a strong connection between our mana pools and staves. I’d been in practice since my receiving my first staff as a child, but Solas had shown me ways bring more focus into each pose, simplifying the exercise considerably.

By the time we’d dressed and made our way downstairs, a luncheon had been arranged on a wide banquette in the parlor.

Vivienne was reclined on a divan, holding a saucer in one hand and a teacup in the other, three fingers carefully curled around the handle and the smallest two elegantly extended. Dorian was taking tea as well, they had clearly moved on from lunch, laughing about a dance with some handsome marquis the night before.

“Good afternoon my dears, are you much recovered from the ball? I do hope you’ll have something to eat.”

I made a plate for myself, happy for bread and butter and slices of persimmon instead of the cold terrines and flaky tarts that seemed to pique Solas’ interest. I sat on the edge of a chair next to Vivienne, balancing my plate on my knees, and in a moment Solas joined Dorian on the low couch.

“Ahh! Solas, you startled me, you’re so nondescript,” Dorian gave Solas a once-over as if wearing a wolf pelt was so last season.

“Please speak up, I cannot hear you over your outfit.”

I knew from The Game that laughing spoiled the joke, but I couldn’t help myself. Solas was more clever and quick than anyone gave him credit for, and his deadpan delivery made it all the more delicious. Dorian glanced at me, amused that I was amused, then followed my gaze back to Solas before shaking his head as if I were a lost cause. Emboldened, he carried on with his banter.

“Solas, what’s this whole look of yours about?”

“I’m sorry…?” He said before carefully biting into a cheese tart.

“No, that outfit is sorry. What are you supposed to be, some kind of woodsman? Is this a Dalish thing? Don’t you dislike the Dalish,” here he paused to wink at me, “or is it some kind of statement?”

“No.”

“Well, it says apostate hobo to me.”

“Unwashed apostate hobo, more specifically.” Vivienne added, her empty teacup and saucer hitting the table with a soft clink. 

“The Dalish would call it a statement,” I said dryly, giving Solas a half-hearted glare. 

"Oh, how so?" Dorian looked intrigued.

"That particular sort of fur is somewhat...sacrilegious." 

"Perhaps you have not noticed, vhenan, but I am not Dalish." 

"Have I complained?" 

“Let me get this straight, Solas,” Dorian interjected. “You’re an apostate, neither Dalish _nor_ city elf, who lived alone in the woods, studying spirits?”

“Is that a problem for you?”

“No, no, you’re a special and unique snowflake, live the dream.”

“Speaking of dreams, darling, you were a vision last night. Brava.”

Vivienne gave me a sly smile as a servant appeared to refill her tea; I tried not to stare, as if having an elf wait on one hand and foot was perfectly normal.

“Only thanks to you, Madame de Fer, though I’m afraid the dress was completely ruined.”

“Oh, well, that’s fine, my dear. We would have burned it anyway, the Inquisitor musn’t recycle her fashions.”

“I did burn it,” said Solas, picking up the napkin on his knee to dab his mouth.

“My, my, my,” Dorian raised an eyebrow. “The flames of love.”

“Did you really burn it?”

Solas looked at me, quite sincere. “I did not think you would want to see it again.”

That was true, I thought, returning to my bread and butter. I hadn’t even noticed that it was gone when I’d returned from the creek, nor again in the morning. He’d made the bloody mess disappear as if it had only been a bad dream. I gently pushed at him with my mana, careful to channel in a way that neither Vivienne nor Dorian would notice.

A smile ghosted at the corner of his mouth.

We set out for Skyhold within the hour, the sun at our backs. Though I still hadn’t sorted out my feelings about Halamshiral in general, it was our conversation over tea that lingered with me on the road. The apostate hobo jokes that Dorian and Vivienne leveled at Solas were not without teeth, and they forgot the same and more could be said of me— the Dalish were by definition homeless.

At least Solas had been born in a village; I’d never taken a bath nor worn shoes until Haven. If not for months of Josephine’s diligent tutoring in human etiquette and custom, a week spent preparing me for Halamshiral would have done little good. There were just too many details to remember for one not born to that life, which was to say I understood the kind of effort it took to pretend, as well as the ways in which I could never hide. 

I gave myself away whenever I laughed, open mouthed and too loud for small rooms because I was only ever used to open air. I gave myself away whenever I spoke, mispronouncing certain words and none the wiser because I’d learned them from books and not a shemlen teacher. Whenever I slouched, whenever I kissed the wrong hand, whenever I bowed too low, or not low enough, however well I played The Game— in a thousand tiny ways any noble could see that I did not belong.

It was only thanks to Josephine’s monumental efforts that I did not trip in Winter Palace to reveal my true self: an unwashed apostate hobo. So while Solas paid no mind to our party’s banter, I found their jabs too sharp; increasingly so as our journey wore on.

“It was fascinating to observe you at the Winter Palace, Enchanter.”

“I am pleased that such engagements were enjoyable for everyone. Even those with no grasp of subtler social interplay might enjoy the pageantry.”

“It is all pageantry, Enchanter,” Solas said with false wisdom, as if he disdained rather than facilitated such things. 

“I do hope you were not mistaken for a servant at the Winter Palace, Solas,” a wicked edge of laughter ran through her words.

“Such mistakes are opportunities in disguise, nobles say things around servants they would never say to Cassandra, or the Inquisitor.”

“Yes, anyone who wishes to play the game learns to use her servants effectively, although I am surprised to see an elven apostate catch on so quickly.”

“My apologies, I shall try to live down to your expectations.”

A thousand angry retorts burned on my tongue, but I remained in awestruck silence. In a few simple words Solas had goaded Vivienne into disclosing her true opinion of _me,_ outplaying her so masterfully that she had no idea anything had happened at all. I felt a brush of magic against my skin and knew then that it had been a gift, he was showing me something of the Enchanter that I had not seen before.

In her world, elves could do no more than aspire to serve as well trained pawns for masters of The Game. At the masquerade, I’d been only a different sort of servant to use in a different sort of way. That the elf she had ordered painted and pierced failed to save Celene was no more than a stroke of bad luck; Vivienne could simply not conceive that an elven apostate had intentionally put Gaspard on the throne. If I’d had any illusions about her friendship before, I certainly held them no longer.

The knowledge sat sour on my stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think Vivienne's a very shrewd player of the game, and to me as a player her manipulations were quite clear if not downright up front. To my knowledge, she never tries to trick the Inquisitor, she's very quick to make her opinions known. It's just that I think Lavellan imagines that, over time, Vivienne has grown to feel more warmly towards both elves and apostates, but in that she is mistaken.


	41. Oh, You Mean Elves!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sliiiiiight divergence from canon because any Dalish worth her salt would take MAJOR exception to Solas deriding the elves as he does post-Halamshiral, and I presume that the active disapproval earned by asking about his time at court would translate into very grumpy behavior. Also, I'd really like Lavellan to have a chance for some real-talk with Solas about calling her beautiful without her vallaslin. Because, dude.

“First, this wasn’t my idea," Josephine began, meeting me at the top of the stairs. "It is an issue born of titles and heir apparency and…Halamshiral has asked that you pass judgement on the late Duchess de Chalons.”

Arriving back at Skyhold to find Florianne’s rotting corpse stuffed in a box and left on my doorstep did little to improve my mood after the unpleasant edge of our journey. 

The enormous crowd gathered in the great hall parted as I strode inside, eager to see the spectacle about to unfold, but I’d at last found the extent to which I’d tolerate Orlesian politics.

“Murdering her didn’t send a clear enough message?” I slouched onto the throne, too tired to even pretend at courtly manners. “Fine. Guilty. Done. Seal it up, send her back, and tell them not to waste my time.”

“Again, my apologies,” the ambassador winced.

I waved her off. “No, Josephine, it’s…It’s not yours to apologize for. It’s just been… I’ve seen all too much of this particular corpse.”

“You should retire, your worship. If you like, we could have the kitchen—”

“Come to the tavern with me, Josephine. I can’t bear to have a mannered dinner in my quarters right now.”

She paused, perhaps surprised that I should want her company outside of some discrete purpose. Gods, it was The Game that made me even wonder that.

“Very well. If you will allow me to finish the paperwork so that we can be rid of…” she gestured toward the box, “I will meet you there within the candlemark.”

“Perfect.”

It was odd to be in the tavern together while not playing a round of Wicked Grace, but also oddly delightful to speak to Josephine on matters outside of etiquette and the Inquisition. Instead, we had a surprising conversation about Antivan brandy— which I knew nothing about aside from the fact that it got the job done in fewer swigs than ale, a crucial consideration for elven stomachs. She was a little horrified that I’d always taken it from the bottle or a flask instead of a proper glass, so after we’d finished our chicken pies she had Cabot send out two snifters of the stuff.

She cupped the glass in both hands.

“See? Like this. As your fingers warm the glass, the brandy opens itself like a rose, revealing nuance you cannot find in the cold.”

I mimicked the motion, and after a minute she raised her glass and inhaled deeply.

“Ahhh. It is perhaps not the finest, but rather lovely in its own way. Go ahead.”

My first impression was of the fumes alone, but after they burned away I could smell something more; like embrium and oak. We sipped together and I was amazed to see how much more flavorful it had become. In truth, when it came to brandy my only interest was its effect, but however fine the thread it was nice to discover a connection to Josephine not born of the political machinations.

Unlike Blackwall, Josephine would not keep me up into the night with endless drinking, so we returned to Skyhold together after one glass— warm but unaffected. Mostly unaffected. We parted ways in the great hall and I stepped quietly into the rotunda.

I was startled to see Solas had already begun the next panel of his fresco, the late Empress rising up from the floor like a mountain. Archivist Banon himself often stood in awe of its scope, making me feel somewhat less biased in my own admiration. Solas seemed to have so many talents aside from his magic, from language to art and strategy— Iron Bull had vowed never to play chess with him again, and Blackwall said the same of diamondback. Having no creative talent of my own, it was humbling that I should have nothing to give him in return.

Though I had no intent of disturbing him, his focus could be rather singular, Solas called out to me from the scaffolding.

“There are spirits hovering by the veil to observe the thrones of powerful nations,” he said, lost in thought. “After our time in Halamshiral, I understand why. I had forgotten how I missed court intrigue.”

He was dragging a swath of cerulean plaster to form the slender column of Celene’s gown. 

“You miss court intrigue? When were you in court?”

I didn’t mean to sound incredulous, he did seem oddly at home in the Winter Palace, it was just such an intriguing glimpse into his life before the Inquisition. The brush stilled for a split second before smoothly flowing on. 

“Oh. Well…never directly, of course. An elven apostate is rarely invited to speak with empresses and kings. But from the Fade I have watched dynasties fall and empires crumble. It is sometimes savage, sometimes noble, and always fascinating. In any event, Gaspard should be a steadfast ally, and Briala will keep him in check. And look after the elves.”

I felt a swell of pride. Maybe that, in its own way, that was something I could give him; the satisfaction of knowing we’d used the Inquisition to accomplish something for The People. I wouldn’t pretend that city elves and Dalish would suddenly join hands to praise Mythal together in song, but it was a start.

“I hope Briala is able to use her position to help our people.”

Solas climbed down the ladder and crouched at a pail on the floor to mix a new batch of plaster.

“ _Our_ people?” He scoffed. “Who are—? Oh, you mean elves! I’m sorry, I was confused. I do not consider myself to have much in common with the elves.”

The elves. Somehow he’d made it a slur, and my own knife-ears burned hot. He was still talking, but it might has well have been Tevene, my world had condensed around the implication: Solas did not count me among his people. The weight of it felt like a real thing, pushing me face down into his disdain for the Dalish and all the times I'd thought myself the exception. But it wasn’t just the Dalish, it was all of us: the elves.

When my vallaslin were covered and I was dressed up like shem, he’d said that I was beautiful.

I bumped into his desk as I took a step back. Oh, gods.

“Is that why you won’t…?” The words were slow and thick in my mouth. “Do you change the shape of me in the fade?”

He spun around, his face white and expression slack. Teeth touched lips to form the word, vhenan, and I threw a hand between us.

“Don’t say it. Don’t you dare say it.”

I left the room in a daze, electricity coiling in my stomach as I entered the great hall. I barely registered Varric’s expression, but it was enough to tell me he’d heard every damn word. I heard the scuffle of a chair and a sudden rush of motion as I left the keep, voices low and sharp as Varric intercepted Solas at the door.

I didn’t think, just leapt from the top of the staircase, the uplift of a mindblast cushioning my fall to the lower bailey. A sharp whistle brought Shartan trotting out from his pen, my clever boy. I fisted the shaggy aubergine hair at his withers and took two short skips to launch myself upon his broad back.

“My lady,” a figure stepped from the shadows of the stable, cautious.

“Blackwall.”

I didn’t have the presence of mind then to realize that a saddled horse stood behind him. He didn’t say another word, just watched me take Shartan through the muck toward the gate, where the guards had already anticipated my order. The portcullis was lifting with a slow rattle, and I realized for the first time Skyhold was not a prison— people moved to obey even before my command.

My stag ducked his head to pass under the half-open gate, and I twisted to call out behind me.

“Don’t open the gate til morning. Not for anyone.”

“Yes, Inquisitor!”

I took the bridge at a walk, mindful that wild harts have little experience with icy flagstones, but when we crunched through to the snow on the other side Shartan knew exactly what I wanted. Relaxing my legs around the width of him, I opened my hips and lifted my core as he broke into a canter. My thighs tightened to urge him on, and all two thousand pounds of him gathered beneath me to surge forward, the both of us screaming into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the first moment, in game, that I began to suspect Solas was not who he said he was. His scorn for the elves was so intense! If you played as any other race, the line slips by because you could interpret it to mean that *you're* being a racist for mentioning the elven connection. But for an Dalish love interest? It's an outrageous burn and the first real crack in his mask, which I think very clearly relates to what he saw and experienced in Halamshiral.
> 
> And huge shout-out to Lady Stoic for sketching this [beautiful pic](http://fc07.deviantart.net/fs71/f/2015/013/f/a/fanpic_by_ladystoic-d8dsj9v.jpg) of Lavellan in her Halamshiral dress, it's so lovely!!!


	42. Forgotten Bastards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because I've always wanted to explore an explanation for the paintings of the bear and the halla; I don't care what anyone says, that thing is a bear, not a wolf. Much of the conversation between Solas and Lavellan is non-canon, but I hope it is at least consistent with the characters and lore. Oh gods, these two are a mess.

The snowy pass was a blur around me, and my thoughts raced almost as fast.

 _My people will find a way to repay you,_ Briala promised me in the Winter Palace. I’d taken her hand, _You don’t have to repay me, lethallan, they’re my people too._ She’d smiled behind her mask, eyes liquid with tears. I’d never even met her before, but in that moment we were bound by far more than the slant of our ears; by blood and history and, perhaps, a future. For our people.

 _Our people. Who are—? Oh, you mean elves!_ Fenedhis, he sounded like Sera. 

I’d been spit on before, first time I walked too close to a shem noble on a visit to Wycome when my vallaslin was still fresh. It came as an awful surprise, a hot swell of shame and embarrassment and confusion that flashed to hurt. That Solas did it with words didn’t change what it was.

Shartan slowed to a trot as I slumped under the realization of it.

I shifted my balance to swing him in a circle; we were some five miles from Skyhold, spurred by magic, faster and farther than any horse could have managed in so short a time. I slid from his back and left Shartan by the rocky wall, stalking off until I could be sure that no stray spell would bring him harm. He was steady, fearless and proud. He’d let me cast my grief into the night without a tether to hold him.

But by the time I’d made it out into the clearing, there was simply nothing left to give. No spell would lift the weight, no screaming rage would ease the hurt. I fell knees down in the snow, empty and stunned. Why would he say such a thing? After all the times we’d talked about our people, our history, our culture…

The ghost of a hand caressed my cheek, unable to brush away the tears yet soothing. Amalia. Her specter arced around me, magic tingling where she petted but couldn’t quite touch through the veil. _Give me form._

With a stretch of my fingers, the inky purple smoke of her filled the valley, carefully curling away from Shartan as she raced into the trees along the mountain pass. An instant later there was an awful howling and a roar, followed by terrible silence, and in a moment more a great black bear came lumbering out from the woods. 

I wasn’t so used to her magic or so far from my clan that the sight didn’t give me pause. It was a massive thing, hulking in its winter weight, and weeping sickly violet light from each eye. The bear nosed into my chest and huffed a warm breath when I ran my fingers through its shaggy fur. Amalia heaved the beast down to the snow and I huddled into the warmth of it, burying my face in its shoulder and worrying tufts of fur between my fingers, lost in wondering.

From the moment we met, I’d counted Solas among my people; just being near him had been the only thing to keep me from drowning in the shemlen world. When I needed more to cling to he called me da’len so that I could have a little clan, and when Corypheus destroyed everything we’d built, he welcomed me as lethallin. And when even that was not enough to keep my panic at bay, Solas called me vhenan.

How could he call me those things and think himself apart from the elves?

Gods, was everything The Game? He’d been the only mage smart enough to keep the Anchor from killing me, the only one savvy enough to theorize how it might seal the Breach, and the only one…fucking elfy enough to keep me from flying apart at the seams. Because if I came undone, the Breach would swallow the world.

He’d said it wasn’t the best idea.

He’d said it would lead to trouble.

Suddenly the bear shifted around me, sitting up on its heels like a mabari and clutching me against its chest with one massive paw. I clung to it instinctively, wrapping my arms around its neck as Amalia roared around me, an earsplitting pit of feral rage turned upside down into the night.

When she fell silent, a voice called out from the darkness.

“Leave us, Spirit.”

I tried to find my footing as the bear slumped to the ground, twisting awkwardly to discover Solas stalking toward me with Skyhold at his back. I scrambled away in surprise, falling over the bear’s corpse and flat on my ass into the snow. It wasn’t possible. Not on foot. Not this soon. It felt like something from the Fade, a nonsense scenario.

“How are you even here?”

One corner of his mouth tugged up into a tired smile.

“How many times have I stepped through the Fade to be at your side?”

My thoughts ground to a halt. Fade steps I could understand, but miles? Was that how far he could travel without the weight of battle dividing his attention? It wasn’t—

“Who are your people?” I demanded.

“A good question.” He was almost on top of me. “I joined the Inquisition to save the world. Regardless of whom my people are, this was the best way to help them.”

“This?”

“You.”

My stomach twisted.

“This isn’t real.”

He dropped down into the snow, knees between my legs and one hand sliding to grip the back of my neck; _I’ve got you, vhenan._

“Don’t ever say that.”

“If you reject the elves, you reject me in the same breath.”

“Do you think you so cleverly distracted me from what was left unsaid last night?”

“Solas—”

“What was the price? What would the Dalish require of you to keep your sister with Clan Lavellan?”

He released me and stood, pacing the way he had after my smite, fingers clenching with magic, and I hurried to my feet wishing some barrier could shield me from what was to come. It would be Haven all over again, but now the debate had lost its charm. Nothing would make him understand and so I held my tongue.

“They would have traded you to another clan like chattel,” he spat. “And for what? So some withered Keeper could tumble you in a filthy aravel, chance at making another mage? It is vile the Dalish teach such things as duty, even worse that you accept. So, yes, I can reject the Dalish and cherish you in the same breath.”

"Magic is a resource to be cultivated like any other, would you have it die out among the clan?"

"You are not a resource, vhenan!"

“Tell that to the fucking Inquisition. Whatever my duties as First, they are none of your concern.”

“Are they not?” He turned away, fixing his gaze on the snow covered ground. “When you offered yourself to me that night under the stars, I thought that if Andruil had possessed half your grace and beauty, Fen’Harel would not have escaped. But with neither the power nor the charm of a god, I asked myself: why would this glorious wildling desire a flat-eared hahren? Surely she would not, but perhaps, if he were a mage, she might take him as her duty.”

The whole world stopped.

“You can’t be possibly be serious,” I laughed, a smothered sort of gasping in my disbelief.

“How many forgotten bastards do you suppose I have among the Dalish?”

“I wouldn’t know,” I said as coolly as I could, “because that would involve you opening up to me for once instead of passing off some second-hand memory you picked up in the fade.”

“Emma ir abelas.”

No other man could hang such weight on those three words. It wasn’t just sorrow, but anguish that colored his voice and despair that broke his features. He came at me slowly, as if giving me time to turn away, but when I stepped forward he was on me in a rush, crushing me to his chest and pressing kisses into my hair.

“Emma ir abelas, emma lath. Ma sa’lath. I dream of you even when you are awake, I have changed nothing, vhenan’ara, you are perfect, ma’arlath…”

Beyond that and I was lost in elven I could not comprehend, ancient words to remind me that those second-hand memories were as real to him as any other. The pain that I’d carried out into the snow twisted into something less sharp; still hurting but less raw. Had he fallen in love with a Keeper, had she seen him as nothing more than a sire? Had he been turned out after finding refuge in a clan, never to see what became of his child? Had he tried to find them in his wandering, did he seek them in the fade?

“Ar lath ma, Solas, please believe me.”

He stood so quiet and still, but I did not mistake the hot tears on my cheek for my own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think Solas would be strangely insecure in a relationship. He’s probably used to wooing women as a badass demi-god renown for his power, not as an "elderly" apostate hobo. I strongly believe he’s wearing a borrowed body (based on The Masked Empire ending), so he can't even enjoy the sort of confidence that goes along with self-acceptance. In fact, if Lavellan were attracted to his looks, it would be yet another lie to disappoint her with when/if Solas reverts to his “true self” (whatever that is) or jumps into another body (as Mythal did with Flemeth).
> 
> We know from Sera that there's a certain reputation for "Drop 'em in, rebuild the empire!" among elves, so I don't think it's a stretch to imagine a First or a Keeper would see it as his/her duty to bunk with another mage. It could ties into the idea established in previous games that Dalish magic is rare and precious while simultaneously accepting new lore that says no clan keep more than 3 mages— perhaps in many clans there are none, and they need to be shuffled.
> 
> Based on a culture that devalues chastity but highly values magic, I imagine Lavellan is a very free love kinda girl who would not see strategic sex as a problem. Have a drink, a chat, a tumble, and walk away with a blessing for herself and the clan. Obviously, I get where Solas is coming from too. These guys have issues.


	43. A Warning Shot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You know, it's been a godsdamned rough day for Lavellan.

We rode back to Skyhold in silence, but companionably so.

I sat behind Solas with my arms wrapped around him, thumbs hooked into the strap of his belt. I pressed my face into the fur of his cloak to hide from the wind, trying to reconcile all that I’d been told. In another world, I would not have had patience for the insults and hurt of the night, but in another world, I would not have known Solas. For him, I would try to understand.

I could at least appreciate how he'd come to find himself so at odds with my people. And, as he had made it clear, the Dalish were my people alone.

It was no secret that those who fled the alienages often sought refuge among the Dalish, and many such elves had wandered with my clan for a season. A few had the disposition to undertake the rite of vallaslin, but for most it was something of a pilgrimage. A chance to play at freedom before slinking back to the shadow of their vhenadahl.

Given the familiar routines of life in a clan, visitors came as a pleasant diversion. When Keeper Istimaethoriel let a flat-eared Antivan travel with us on the journey east from Hunter Fell, I certainly hadn’t been the only Lavellan to slip into his tent. I should imagine that if magic were scarce in a clan, an elven apostate might expect an even warmer welcome. But to my reckoning, it was harmless either way. Should a child take hold, it would be welcomed. Were such things to be avoided, there were spells for that too.

Tavern goers risked more for less every night. To the shemlen and city elves, unexpected pregnancies meant hastily arranged marriages and back ally blood magic, ugly words to sling at mothers and slurs for fatherless children. Worst of all, magelings were turned from their homes and left on the Chantry’s doorstep.

I refused to see villainy in the Dalish way of things, but clearly at some point along his journey such an encounter had gone very badly for Solas. I tried to consider his mistrust as involuntary as the way I used to flinch from Cullen’s voice. If a shem Templar could find a way to gain the trust I didn’t know how to give, surely I could prove myself to Solas. I feathered my mana against his, hoping to soothe.

“So you’re a father, then?” I ventured. Gods, he could be a grandfather if the timing was right.

“I was very reckless as a young man,” he sighed. “And restless. I did not linger long enough to know the consequence of my action. I often regret that I did not remain to take responsibility for those I left behind.”

I rocked against him to the rhythm of Shartan’s steady gait, relieved that Solas had not tensed in my arms at the question.

“The Dalish take care of their own, emma lath…If you have children, they are well loved. You could only be a happy memory to their mothers.”

“There are none among the Dalish who would remember me fondly.”

Despite the intensity of his pathos, I felt a terrible wave of jealousy. No, not a wave but a flood. That women he cared nothing for had known the pleasure of him while I had not. That I could be his vhenan without having ever taken him inside me, without having ever tasted him.

“I can offer a few suggestions if you’d like to redeem yourself to one of them.”

He laughed in surprise, that charming cultured laugh, and twisted to smile at me over his shoulder.

“I shall bear that in mind.”

When we crossed the bridge to Skyhold, the portcullis rattled up to admit us in violation of my previous order, but of course I couldn't bring myself to admonish the guards. To my surprise, Cassandra ran up to meet us at the gate.

“What’s happening?”

“What?” I slid down from Shartan’s back stepped aside for Solas. “Nothing’s happening.”

She pursed her lips and cocked an eyebrow, “You rode suddenly from Skyhold with Blackwall, Varric shot Solas, and then the mage disappeared in a flash of light. Pardon me if it appears that _something_ is happening.”

“What?” I glanced sharply between them.

“No harm done,” Solas said calmly. “Just a warning shot between friends.”

“Are you fucking serious?”

“Skimmed the edge of my cloak. Masterfully done.”

“What of Blackwall, why has he not returned?” Cassandra's concern was rising.

“I don’t understand. Blackwall has nothing to do with this.”

“With _what_? Why did Solas—”

“Gods, Cassandra, lovers’ quarrel, let it go. Blackwall was right here when I left.”

Right there. In the shadows. Cautious. Fuck. 

I hurried to the stables; sure enough a horse and tack were missing, but a sheet of parchment lay under a carpenter’s chisel on his workbench. I snatched it up, skimmed over the rough scrawl of words.

“It’s some sort of farewell, I don’t understand.”

Solas took it from me just as one of the scouts jogged up, “The spymaster confirms it, Blackwall was seen riding west.”

“West. Back to Adamant?” I was beginning to appreciate Cassandra’s confusion.

“On harts, we could overtake him if we left now,” she said.

“To what end?” Solas crossed his arms, “Is Warden Blackwall not free to go?” 

“Of course he’s free to go. It’s just…it seems like something’s forced his hand."

A pit of fear coiled in my stomach. This was my fault. I pressed my fingers to my mouth, wide eyed as the realization hit. Solas gave me a concerned look, but I wished he hadn’t; he was going to kill me. He had told me to exile the Wardens and I didn’t, and now Blackwall had waltzed out of Skyhold with news of Morrigan’s eluvian.

“Dread Wolf,” I swore, “what if it’s Corypheus? Another false Calling. Blackwall withstood it the first time, but what if it’s stronger now. He knows everything.”

Cassandra took off in a dead run, and I didn’t have to ask to know she was after her sword and shield. Solas and I bolted at the same instant, bounding up the stairs to the great hall for our armor.

“Did I not warn you about this very possibility?”

“I know, Solas. Fuck. Yes. I know. Varric! With me!”

By then I was running up to my chambers, Varric confused and on my heels. 

“Boots?”

“Go wake Master Dennet,” I was taking the stairs two at a time, “We’re going to need four fresh stags. Grab Bianca, we’re leaving within the candlemark.”

“And what, prey tell, is the occasion?” He paused at the corner of the stairwell as I threw open the door to my chambers.

“Blackwall’s gone rogue.”

“Well, shit.”

I’d never pulled on my armor so quickly, I hadn’t even cleaned it from the road. By the time we’d all saddled up in the bailey, Leliana was rushing down to us with news from her ravens pointing to where Blackwall may have gone. I hadn’t even slept from the journey home, but now I was riding hard for Val Royeaux.

So much for getting laid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many notes!
> 
> First of all, I wanna say how much I love errbody that jumped in with lore/theories in the last two chapters, because I could talk about that all day and it's so much fun to see the comments turn into this awesome discussion as to everyone's motivations and whatnot.
> 
> But to clear something up, if this chapter didn't already, I want to say that Solas' "Forgotten Bastards" are by no means meant to indicate literal children. I think after 2k years in Thedas, it's reasonable to imagine that he may have offspring ala Flemeth and Morrigan, but at least in the context of this story he really just wants to open up to Lavellan as best he can, and to do so he's created a metaphor by which he can reveal the general truth of his situation without delving into the specifics.
> 
> Also: was I the only one who wished there had been a real risk to banishing or keeping the Wardens? I'm gonna stay canon with this, cos I love Blackwall, but I do love the idea of his departure creating a real panic instead of mere confusion.


	44. A Murderer. A Traitor. A Monster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to think that Solas watched this whole Thom Rainier thing unfold with a certain unique and sympathetic horror. I used to think he was a hypocrite for the things he says to Blackwall after that quest, but in truth if he'd gone easy on Blackwall it would seem disingenuous in retrospect. By going hard on him, we see just how hard he'll be on himself.

I fell in line with Varric behind Solas and Cassandra to let their larger frames shoulder through the crowded square in Val Royeaux. It was pouring rain and my feet were covered in city muck. Solas and I had not slept since Halamshiral, then we’d spent a tremendous amount of mana feeding the harts as we rode. We both took lyrium at dawn and again when we made it to the outskirts of the city, then restorative potions to make up for the lack of sleep.

Needless to say, we felt like shit, and I was grateful Cassandra and Varric were no more than road-weary. Cullen was several hours behind us with a small contingent of soldiers marching under Gaspard’s banner so as not to raise suspicions. None of us had any idea what to expect, only that Leliana’s spies had reason to believe Blackwall’s disappearance coincided with the scheduled execution of a one Cyril Mornay.

The withered old man standing on the gallows seemed to have neither the presence nor power of Alexius and Florianne, but something about him had drawn Blackwall to the capitol. If it were a false calling, something ugly would soon follow. Any attack would be a massacre; there were too many important people in one place and too few for their defense.

A masked soldier stepped forward to declare Mornay’s crime, the murder of Lord Vincent Callier, along with his entire household, including children and servants. Varric winced as the details emerged.

“Well, this is grim.”

Solas glanced down at us and I shook my head, no idea what to make of it. When the executioner hauled Mornay to his feet and slipped the noose around his neck, Cassandra maneuvered so she could have room to draw her sword. I felt a swell of magic building around Solas, flashy and bright from lyrium, and I pushed my aura outward to extend a barrier around the lot of us.

If something were to come, it would come soon.

Almost on cue, Blackwall’s voice rose above the din.

“Stop! This man is innocent of the crimes laid before him,” he was climbing the gallows-stair. “Orders were given and he followed them like any good soldier. He should not die for that mistake.”

Relief washed over me. Whatever this mess was, it wasn’t an issue of demons or possession. It could be handled. Varric grabbed my arm and squeezed; this was our Blackwall, not some enthralled Warden.

“Then find me the man who gave the order,” said the soldier.

“Oh, shit,” Varric said, one step ahead of my own realization.

“Blackwall!”

He frowned from the scaffolding, scanning the crowd for a moment before finding me. For one perfect moment our eyes locked, calling up the memory of him standing on the doorstep of my little house and lifting my hand to his mouth. _My lady._ That had been the last thing he’d said to me, and I knew that everything was about to change.

“No, I am not Blackwall,” he kept his eyes on mine, “I never was Blackwall. Warden Blackwall is dead, and has been for years. I assumed his name to hide like a coward from who I really am. But it’s over, I’m done hiding. I gave the order, the crime is mine. I am Thom Rainier.”

Mornay staggered at the confession, but I was riveted in place, frozen, uncomprehending. Blackwall was singlehandedly the least duplicitous person I’d ever met, it was insanity. The crowd exploded around us in frantic cries and shouts, while a pair of guards dragged Blackwall… Rainier?… from the platform.

I was utterly lost and grabbing for Cassandra.

“What do we do, where do we go?”

“There’s nothing to do, vhenan,” Solas gently intervened, “that man must answer to Orlais for his crimes.”

That man? I ignored him, pulling on Cassandra’s arm and willing her to listen.

“Tell me what to do, Cassandra. We have to get there first. Before Lord Callier’s allies, before anyone still loyal to Celene.”

“Come with me,” she took me by the arm, all but dragging me in her wake.

My fingers found Varric’s collar, “Find Cullen. This is military, they’ll…I need Cullen.”

Then the surging crowd carried us away and it was all I could do not to lose Cassandra. By the time we arrived at the pénitencier, she stood a little taller, spoke a little louder, and chose to embody the title I’d all but forgotten: Hero of Orlais. The clerks couldn’t scramble fast enough to please her, and soon enough I was granted access to the dungeon.

However opulent the architecture of Orlais, their prisons didn’t hold a candle to the one in Haven. Rainwater ran freely from the ceiling, shimmering over the bricks in thin rivulets and forming dirty pools on the floor. I walked the length of the hall to find Blackwall hunched over in the farthest cell, wet hair matted to his head.

“I didn’t take Blackwall’s life,” he offered. “I traded his death. He wanted me for the Wardens, but there was an ambush; darkspawn. He was killed. I took his name to stop the world from losing a good man. But a good man, the man he was, wouldn’t have let another die in his place.”

“That…took courage.”

“Courage? I killed innocent people, destroyed Mornay’s life and the lives of others like him, one moment of courage will not make up for that. Why are you here,” he growled.

I slumped against the iron bars, unsure of what to say. In truth, his crimes fell so far short of my fears that I felt only relief. Perhaps among the Dalish I’d grown insensitive to the death of a few shem nobles, but gods, Callier was Celene’s general, Gaspard would have him dead by now anyway.

“Do you think I’d abandon you? I’m bringing you home.”

“Home? Don’t you understand?” He flew to his feet, and I jumped back to make room for his rage. “I gave the order to kill Lord Callier, his entourage, and I lied to my men about what they were doing. When it came to light, I ran. Those men, my men, paid for my treason while I was pretending to be a better man.”

He shouted and shook the bars, but when his fever peaked he fell to the floor. I’d never seen it before, in all our travels no giant, no demon had ever worn him down, yet here he was kneeling and broken.

“This is what I am. A murderer. A traitor. A monster.”

“Get up.”

He said nothing, did nothing, and I felt a wave of doubt just before casting a mindblast that sent him reeling.

“I said, get up! You came back and that means somewhere along the line you stopped pretending. So stop pretending you’ve been defeated now and get the _fuck_ up.”

It’s a lot harder for a man to stay down when he’s flat on his ass, much less dignified and all that, so he finally stood. His eyes were spitting fire, though, and that was fine. It was a hell of a lot better than whatever he was drowning in before.


	45. Showing Face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Judging Thom Rainier is about everyone but Blackwall, pretty much. If you're not a fan of Dark Solas, gtfo. <3

Josephine was ultimately the one to free Thom Rainier. We knew Gaspard would have given him to us gladly, but Josephine didn’t want us to be seen calling on favors from the Emperor so quickly. With great reluctance, the ambassador pulled on her connections with the Council of Heralds instead. In the end, they declared an ongoing state of war that would allow for the Inquisition to conscript Rainier in our fight against Corypheus.

Cullen thought it best if we bring our ward home in a covered wagon, reasoning it would not do for the Inquisitor to ride through Val Royeaux with a criminal at her side. At least surrounded by our troops it would appear to be serious business rather than some whim of the Inquisition.

It _was_ serious business, and by all accounts I was making a terrible mistake. No one, not even Thom Rainier, supported my decision. Yet how could I leave him behind? He’d been at my side since before Corypheus had a name. He was the one who taught me how to wield my staff like a blade, who defended the townsfolk the night Haven fell, who journeyed to the Fade and back with us at Adamant.

I knew him to be loyal and good and true. What did it matter if he hadn’t always been so?

Those thoughts stretched the journey back to Skyhold into an eternity, and tension weighed what little conversation we made. While Solas and Cassandra found common ground on their mutual disappointment in my decision to extradite “Blackwall,” Varric and I struggled to reconcile what we _knew_ of the man with what we had learned.

“I dunno, Boots. After Anders, anything less than setting the world on fire seems like a walk in the park. ”

“By that measure, Child of the Stone, the Templar who killed Cole must have been having a picnic.”

“Listen, Chuckles, I’m not saying this ain’t some bad shit, cos it’s bad shit. I’m only saying that I’ve lost any sense of perspective when it comes to betrayal. Did I tell you the one about my brother?”

“Blackwall didn’t betray us!”

Cassandra made a disgusted noise. “The Dalish must have a peculiar understanding of the word, Inquisitor.”

“We have a whole god dedicated to betrayal, Cassandra. We get it. But Blackwall—”

“Rainier,” Solas interrupted, flicking a piece of lint from his robe.

“Fine! Rainier. Whatever his name, how many times has he risked his life for ours?”

“So there’s a number, then?” said Cassandra. “A tipping point where murderers become heroes?” 

“What about…what’s his name. The one that killed Andraste, the magister. Dorian told me it’s his sword on the Inquisition’s crest.”

“I should have known you’d take your questions about the Chantry to a Tevinter.”

“Solas?” I asked in exasperation.

“Archon Hessarian.”

“Right! So what if Andraste’s followers killed the Archon right there? You wouldn’t even have a Chantry.”

“That is debatable.” 

“Now you’re being obtuse.”

“Have I stood in your way, Inquisitor? Do what you will with this ‘Blackwall.’”

It was the first time Cassandra and I had ever truly been at odds. At least, the first time since I’d graduated from prisoner to Herald of Andraste. Then again, perhaps Varric wasn’t the only one whose sense of perspective was irreparably damaged.

The truth was, I couldn’t forget the voice of a Nightmare taunting Blackwall, “You are nothing like a Grey Warden.” I’d been trying to forget that filth since we stepped out of the Fade, but knowing that its words hid a kernel of truth made my blood run cold. 

_Harellan_.

When we returned to the Keep, I went to my chambers to meditate, letting electricity roll across my skin until I could breathe without a lump catching in my throat, until my heart rate fell, until I could feel stillness instead of panic in my thoughts. We were all still living under the Nightmare’s threat, every one of us waiting to be found out and free from it at last. It told Cassandra that I was a fraud, and perhaps she was kneeling at an altar of her own believing it to be true.

Perhaps it was.

I took the time to bathe and change into my finery, The Game would continue after all, then sent word to Josephine that I was ready. The great hall was more densely packed than I had expected, but they weren’t there for Blackwall. They were there to see how the Inquisitor would handle her own. If I could exile or execute a man appointed to my inner circle, what could a sodding recruit hope for?

I sat uneasily on the throne and whatever Josephine had said, I fell deaf at the sight of Blackwall being led through the great hall in chains. Oh, gods, he was a mess. The Orlesian soldiers had given him more than a few parting blows.

“What did you have to do to release me?” he all but spat.

“Josephine called in a few favors.”

“And what happens to the reputation the ambassador has so carefully cultivated? The world will learn how you’ve used your influence. They’ll know the Inquisition is corrupt.”

“Oh.” At least he’d taken the bit about not pretending seriously.

“You could have left me there! I accepted my punishment, I was ready for this all to end. Why would you stop it? What becomes of me now?”

“You have your freedom,” I said, willing my voice to be calm.

“It cannot be as simple as that.”

“It isn’t. You’re free to atone as the man you are, not the traitor you thought you were or the Warden you pretended to be.”

“The man I am?” He said the words like he’d never considered such a person before. “He…I have a lot to make up for. If my future is mine, then I pledge it to the Inquisition. My sword is yours.”

I bit my lip, waiting for the swell of emotion to pass, and then he decided to kick.

“If I’d said anything less, would an arrow from the rookery have snuffed me like a candle?”

“You’re done pretending, Thom Rainier,” I said, rising to my feet. “But I will die pretending that you never said that.”

He didn’t meet my gaze again, not even when a guard approached to release him. I felt sick. I waved off Josephine and all but ran from the dais, stepping left instead of right in my panic. To the void with it, at least I could get a nip of brandy from Dorian. I pushed open the heavy door to the stairwell, flinging it shut and missing a beat before realizing that it didn’t slam.

I turned to find Solas, palm on the door, looking even more disgusted with me than Rainier. I eased up another step so he could have enough room to slide in and let the door close behind him. I’d not have this conversation with half the hall listening at our backs.

I leaned against the wall, shaking from the rush of it, from exhaustion, from lyrium and restoratives, from Blackwall’s unexpected accusations, but Solas stood cool and collected, shoulders back and hands clasped behind him.

“Have you gone quite mad?”

“Apparently.”

“‘Apparently,’ she says.”

“He’s not even a Grey Warden, you should be thrilled.”

“I’m glad you can joke about abusing the Inquisition’s power.”

“You’re not being fair. Blackwall was the first person I ever recruited to our cause, Solas. He’s my responsibility.”

“Responsibility is not expertise. Action is not inherently superior to inaction. There were no grounds for his extradition, none for his pardon. His fate belonged to the imperial court, why deny his victims justice?”

I thought hard about that brandy. It was the Grey Warden business all over again, this wild streak of vengeance that ran through him. 

“I ended the civil war in Orlais, I think they can spare one criminal for the Inquisition.”

“Ah. And what of the mages who corrupted my friend? Perhaps you should have rehabilitated them too.”

“Don’t forget that Blackwall was with us that day; he risked his life to buy us enough time to break the summoning circle. Would Cassandra have done that for a so-called demon? The point is, another man would have let that crime drag him down a darker path, but Blackwall’s been trying to claw his way back ever since. I respect that. I believe what Cassandra told us back in Haven— whatever we were before, we are now the Inquisition.”

He just laughed and leaned against the wall, the tips of his ears flushing pink with amusement. I might as well have suggested we broker peace with the Elder One over tea and frilly cakes.

“Not even Cassandra believes that.”

“Then go commiserate with her. I’d rather see Blackwall—“

“Rainier.”

“I’d rather see a man try to set things right than have him dead at my feet.”

“The world will not return your gentle touch, Inquisitor.”

“It’s not the world I’m asking, Solas.”

The fight left me and I closed the gap between us, reaching to cup his face in my palm. Lightning fast, he snatched my wrist in one hand and threw me against the wall, his lips hot on my ear.

“I never told you that my touch was gentle,” he pitched his voice low so it wouldn’t echo, “and I have warned you not to push me.”

My breath caught to feel the sudden hardness pressed against my hip; gods, it had been a thousand shoves since that day in Hawen’s camp. When he’d said that if he wanted my attention….

“My mistake. I only caught the part about you having me on my knees.”

“That was a warning.” One hand curled warm around my throat.

“And the bit about possessing me…”

“Also. A warning.”

I writhed against his hardness. “Is that a warning too?”

Solas buried his face in my shoulder, inhaling deeply before biting my neck and tightening his grip. My heart was racing as I rocked against him. I’d never seen his control so frayed, not even in Halamshiral. Then as suddenly as it began, he released me.

“Walk away, Inquisitor.”

If I had cast anything at all, I’d have brought down the entire wing. He always did that; pulled me, pushed me, right up to the gods forsaken edge before walking away. Or making me walk away. It didn’t matter how many times he came to me in the Fade, how many times his mana claimed mine, how many times he pushed his fingers into me, how many times he bowed between my legs, I wanted the rest of him and he would not yield.

“Or what?”

He clenched his jaw, the way he always did right before regaining control.

“Ar lath ma, vhenan, but there is a face I do not wish to show.”

It scared the shit out of me, whatever it was. The story behind Harellan, the thing that always held him back, the thing that went beyond his trouble with the Dalish, deeper than any risk of pregnancy. It was something awful, truly awful. I knew it in my bones.

“I want you to show me.”

“You really don’t,” he backed down another step, but it didn’t feel like he was retreating. It felt like he was giving me a head start. He expected me to be afraid, and judging by the death magic that welled in my palm Amalia did too. I dismissed her with a thought and tried to hold his gaze, but then he did it: took a deep breath and became my sweet hahren once more.

It was pity, then; the expression on his face. Even after everything, he thought I was an infatuated little girl. Then I decided there was no line I would not cross to make him understand.

“Do you think I’m stupid? Do you think I suddenly forgot elven when we were in the Fade, that I didn’t hear what the Nightmare said? To the void with it, whatever it is. A shemlen merc murdered an entire noble line, children, elven servants, old men hobbled in their chairs, and for what? Blighted coin?

“He stole another man’s identity, lied to me, to us all, but _Blackwall_ would die for me, and I won’t spit on that sort of loyalty because he was once Thom Rainier. Ar lath ma, Solas, there is nothing I would not forgive you. Why won’t you believe me?”

His lips moved, voiceless. “I do believe you.”

There was a crack in the mask, tiny, but if I were clever it just might crumble. Maybe I could keep him after all, if I could say the right thing, what was it? Memories poured through my fingertips, there was one that I needed, one that could save us, surely, one that I’d…forgotten.

Cole.

Cole who said nothing that did not cut to the heart of our hurt, who told me desperate and pleading, _You should ask Solas to bind you too._ It took my breath away and I gasped; Solas locked his eyes on mine, some very real thread of panic lacing his features.

“I want you to bind me,” it came out in a rush and the change in him was immediate.

His pupils snapped wide and dark, and I remembered him as a hunter in the woods. His eyes searched me, following my vallaslin beneath the collar of my tunic then back to my mouth. Gods, he was nearly undone. One hand wrapped around the back of my neck, twisting and pulling through my hair to tip my chin up so I couldn’t help but meet his gaze.

“Do you think I am the Iron Bull, playing little games and pretending at power? Do you think there is any word in Thedas that could stop me once I’ve tasted you?”

Heat and fear and desire washed over me; Mythal’s mercy, stopping him was the least of my concern.

“I am begging you, Solas.”

He was on me in an instant, teeth and tongue and mana in a rush of motion. I didn’t register that he’d ripped open my tunic until I heard the brass buttons bouncing down the stairs. The world spun around me and I was chest and cheek against the wall, a shock of cold stone that sent me gasping.

I didn’t quite know what to do, I couldn’t turn, couldn’t put my hands on him, couldn’t kiss, couldn’t move except to gasp when he jerked my breastband down around my waist. His mana swelled into mine, displacing any magic that I might have called on, as a rough jerk brought my breeches down around my thighs.

Solas shifted his weight and twisted, driving me to my knees beneath him and turning me from the wall. I tried to gather the mana or strength to push back, but he was unrelenting. Magic thundered through me in waves, leaving me senseless and only dimly aware of the stone steps beneath my palms. My breeches were bunched between my legs and cool air on my ass let me know that my smalls were gone too.

I meant to call his name but it came out as a half bitten moan; there were two doors at the top of the staircase.

I tried to twist around, but the hand in my hair kept me staring at nothing but the straight stretch of stairwell ahead as something hot nudged aside the folds of me. Creators, fuck. Solas bent himself over me, sucked the point of one ear between his lips as a warm hand slid over my mouth.

“Scream if you like.”

He pushed inside with one thrust, and I did scream— gods, I had waited for this man. And now he was where he belonged, and I could not contain him. The fullness of it overwhelmed me, not stretching or splitting, but expanding, my world growing larger to make room for him. Screams bubbled up from the heart of me, from his heart inside me, to die in the palm of his hand.

I could do nothing but brace myself and try to quiet the wildness he drove from me. There were people everywhere, just outside the doors. Anyone could, anyone could… If anyone stepped through, they’d see me on my knees before him, utterly abandoned to my lust. The stairwell seemed to ring with the obscene _slap_ of it, the determined grunts and gasps and the growling satisfaction that he stifled into my shoulder.

Satisfaction. His satisfaction. He groaned into another thrust, pushed his mana into mine.

And then I realized, he wasn’t moving at all. Somewhere along the way he’d grown still and I was fucking myself against him, grinding back for more, and totally lost in it. The realization sent me shuddering desperately around him, breath ragged against his palm as I came and my world clenching around a cock I’d never seen. A self-satisfied chuckle rumbled against my ear.

“You should learn to pace yourself, da’len.”

Gods, pace myself? We were in a fucking stairwell. But in another few thrusts its was clear he was in no hurry, that I didn’t have the strength to hold us, and that he didn’t care. Solas didn’t let up, just kept driving into me until I was crushed against the stairs. Yet somehow it was perfect, every sensation a caress on my skin, every thrust creating delicious friction. Time had stopped, I knew only the pounding rhythm and the taste of elfroot on the fingers across my mouth.

The teeth of his wolf bone amulet bit into my back as he arched over me to slide his tongue along the back of my neck. His mana pushed into me, more than he’d ever given before, filling me to bursting. He cast and sparked inside me, a rolling wave of force magic that seemed to bend the world.

Sylaise, gods, June, it was…I could see the Fade, could feel the magic of him there, the thickness of him here, and my own helpless grasping for both. He released my mouth to grab my hips with both hands.

“Ar lath ma, Rial,” he panted, and my heart could have burst.

“Ar lath ma, S—”

His fingers dug into me. “Like you said it the first time.”

My stomach churned in excitement and shock; he actually got off on my blasphemy. I hesitated only a moment.

“Ar lath ma, Fen’Harel.” 

What would have been a wicked groan came out through his clenched teeth and I felt him thrash inside, pumping, giving, at last releasing. He buried his face in the curve of my neck, panting and kissing and whispering things I couldn’t even understand. Elven I’d never heard.

I struggled to catch my breath, delirious and lost until I felt a cool trickle on my thigh. He was slowly spilling out of me, softening but not withdrawing. I felt as if I were floating away, bolstered by exhilaration and a glut of mana. The steps seemed to be shimmering, light sliding across the stone and speckled with stars. Creators, where did we go from here? How could we ever be content with anything less, how could we even part?

Solas adjust his palm against my mouth, then looped his other arm around my waist to drag me back onto to my knees. He cupped my breast and gently pinched, then trailed along my belly, my hips, and down between my legs to the place where we were joined. He stroked his cock where it disappeared inside me, then slick fingers swirled around my clit.

I tried to jerk away, overwhelmed, but he held me fast and made soothing sounds in my ear as he traced another glyph against my skin. I couldn’t work out the magic, didn’t recognize the shape. A thrum of soothing magic shot through the heart of me, the Anchor flared of its own accord, and I felt fresh with want as if I’d never had him at all.

“Ir abelas, vhenan,” he whispered, “you’ll never come for another man.”

He hardened inside me and resumed his previous pace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't watched all the Solas disapproval videos, you may be missing out on the darkness he carries just beneath the surface...."Responsibility is not expertise. Action is not inherently superior to inaction." Is a line he throws at an Inquisitor he dislikes when they pardon the Wardens and it seemed appropriate here...
> 
> Okay, now I'm going to run off and die of shame. BYE~~~
> 
>  **Updated to say** thank you for every single little comment, gahhhh. I can't say how little courage I have when it comes to posting stuff like this, and your comments calm me down from the ledge of "no, don't post it." Also: if you're curious as to what I was listening to when I wrote this... LOL [NOW YOU KNOW!](http://thedosianimports.tumblr.com/post/107398524723/keelahsomethigh-geeky-jez)


	46. Fade Step

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I wouldn't leave you guys in a stairwell.

I had no idea how much longer it went on like that.

There’d been a snap in the veil, a pocket, a warping, and I’d stopped experiencing time in the traditional sense. The world had turned languid and thick, hazy. Solas had abandoned all pretense of keeping me quiet, devoting both hands to my hips and working himself against me at some angle he must have found particularly satisfying; I had to either master myself or be content to let all of Skyhold know that I was being roughly fucked in a stairwell.

Choosing the former was far harder than it should have been— I’d given up counting anything so pedantic as an orgasm. This was something else altogether.

At some point I became aware of a slow, hollow _tick-tocking_ that felt dark and wrong. Then it grew louder until I realized each concussion had been a footfall, and the distant thunder in fact the latch of the library door tumbling open. In an instant, everything dissolved in shimmering blue light and a rush of motion, speed, energy that gave way to a sense of falling, falling.

From a considerable height, should the force of our impact have provided any indication.

It took a second to catch my breath and my bearings: tawny pink sunlight, crisp air, crackling fire, stone all around. We’d landed in the silken sheets of my fluffy human bed.

“I miscalculated.”

I dissolved in laughter beneath his weight. Despite everything, Solas was still buried in me. Despite everything, I was riding another wave of desire. I wiggled to kick off the breeches bundled around my ankles, pushed up to my knees. He ripped off my already torn tunic then slowly pulled himself free of me. The emptiness was immediate, aching, hollow, like the world had gone a little dim.

I rolled onto my back to look up at him, barely disheveled, breeches pulled down only enough to…Oh. Against the softness of his ivory fleece tunic, there was something undeniably harsh about the raw length of his cock jutting out between us, slick and hard as marble. I was transfixed. In this as in all things, Solas exceeded the willowy elven men that I’d known. What's more, he'd never been so marvelously _real._

In the Fade, I could only see him as he saw himself, overlaid with my own memories of his chest and arms and fingers, the smell of him, the taste. He was a composite, the idea of Solas we built together. And where I had no knowledge to fill in the gaps, his thoughts did the rest. Now I knew he must consider himself perfectly average.

Creators, not so.

He tipped up my chin (how long had I been staring?) as he took off his wolf bone amulet and surprised me by dropping it around my neck. It thrummed with some unknown enchantment, nature, perhaps. Elemental, maybe. Spirit, certainly. It was no wonder he rarely took it off. I fell back into the pillows, perversely satisfied to be wearing nothing else as I watched him undress. He didn’t bother to remove his footwraps after discarding his trousers, just climbed back on top of me as if Fade Stepping across Skyhold had only been a minor interruption.

His hands skimmed up my calves and thighs, then he spread my legs open and kneaded his thumbs in small circles on either side of me. Now he was the one staring, and I could only imagine what a swollen mess he’d made of me. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth and he fell onto me, into me, in one smooth motion making me whole, complete, full. Quicker still he’d tumbled us ‘round to put me on top.

I knew I should sit astride him, should make some show of riding and pleasing, but I couldn’t bear the space between us. I wanted his mouth, his tongue, the knowledge that I held him in two places. I rose up on my elbows to ease the sharpness of the amulet between us, and our eyes locked. I lifted and lowered my hips in steady strokes until his breath grew ragged, until his muscles trembled, until his jaw clenched, until it relaxed again as he came for me.

"Oh," he breathed, "you are so _real_."

He sounded awestruck, and I tipped over the edge with him once more, awestruck in return. I could have melted, let my mana pool out in all directions, given up the Dalish, the Inquisition, the whole of Thedas.

I had him.

I had him.

I had him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No size kink here, just going off the idea that elvhen seem to run larger than elves as per Solas and Abelas (especially in comparison to a male elf Inquisitor). And based on the line about gods having nothing to prove, I can totally see Solas underplaying things in the fade. Like, "nope, look at me, just a perfectly average elf!"


	47. The Lovers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I love the parallels between Bianca and Varric and Lavellan and Solas- lovers eventually parted by circumstance. Bianca and Solas have both done their part, however unwitting, in helping Corypheus; meanwhile, I see Varric and Rial as long-suffering and endlessly devoted in the face of both betrayal and absence. We're all boo-hooing that Solas leaves Lavellan in the end, but hot damn, Varric's been waiting fifteen years.

If I had to claim a home outside of the Free Marches, I would claim the Hinterlands. How many months had we spent mapping those woods? Though I’d been lost in Haven, could still get lost in Skyhold, I could never be anything but home in the rolling hills and rocky streams of the Hinterlands.

I knew its _alas_ in the soles of my feet. I could feel the shift from loamy soil to clay beneath my toes as we traveled from Dwarfson’s Pass to Lake Luthias, could tell by the growing thickness of the cool grass when we neared the slow-moving creek that cut north, I knew the rough pebbles that marked the way to Witchwood and the dry slip of pine needles near the forest villa.

Those times hadn’t been happy, but gods they had been simpler. Before we knew Corypheus, before I’d seen Redcliffe overgrown in red lyrium, before I’d recovered my memories in the Fade, before I’d even found Blackwall. Back when I had only Solas, Varric and Cassandra and our problems were no larger than a wicked rift behind Redcliffe Farm.

To have the four of us wandering those woods once more felt bittersweet— something like nostalgia but marred by the knowledge that underneath it all Corypheus had been mining red lyrium all along. How had I kept my toes planted in the earth and missed the twisted feel of him? We all knew the place Bianca had marked on the map, and I’d even cleaned out Valammar once before.

Gods damnit, how had I not known?

If I could have disrupted his red lyrium supply, would the attack on Haven have gone differently? How many more would still be alive? I’d stopped in my tracks, a little sick at the thought. I hadn’t cared a thing for the Inquisition then, only mastering the Anchor and shrugging out of an unwanted shemlen title.

“Vhenan?”

Solas fell back to meet me, and I felt suddenly ashamed. He’d joined the Inquisition of his own free well, because he was curious and clever and wanted to help. I’d only been dragged along by circumstance, entirely uninvested until Alexius came along to show me how my failure would taste.

“Lost in thought,” I smiled up at him, content to wallow in my self pity alone.

“Though I have traveled the Hinterlands many times in the Fade,” he said, “I have found nothing to suggest a red lyrium mine so near.”

“You really spend most of your time in the Fade?” Varric asked, tugging his gloves on a little tighter.

“As much as is possible. The Fade contains a wealth of knowledge for those who know where to look.”

“Suuuure. I don’t know how you dream, let alone wander around in there. Especially when the shit that comes out of the fade generally seems pretty cranky.”

“So are humans, but we continue to interact with them, when we must.”

Cassandra _tsked_ , but otherwise ignored the barb.

“What about you, Boots. Big fan of the Fade?”

I laughed. “Naturally.”

“You two ever, I dunno, go off on Fade adventures?”

I had enough presence of mind not to drop my smile at the shock of his question. Solas and I had long ago decided not to speak of our shared time in the Fade. For both of us to have such a rare magic would draw undue suspicion, especially considering the unsavory associations between Corypheus, Tevinter, somnoborium and elven foci.

“Though you do not visit the Fade in your sleep, Master Tethras, I thought it was common knowledge that dreams are not shared.”

“Right to privacy, I understand,” Varric demurred.

“What Solas means to say is that dreams _cannot_ be shared,” said Cassandra, and I realized: no. Solas had meant to say no such thing. He’d simply avoided a lie with one perfectly placed truth, allowing the others to draw all the wrong conclusions. If I hadn’t been schooled in The Game myself, I would have risked a wink. Gods, he was brilliant.

“Mages can,” Varric insisted, “I knew this kid back in Kirkwall, Feynriel. Or is it an elf thing?”

“What?! That was not in _Tale of the Champion._ ”

“Oh, c’mon, Seeker. You think I’d out a defenseless apostate?”

If she hadn’t been outnumbered by apostates, Cassandra might have taken him to task. As it was, she let it drop, leaving Varric free to resume his former line of interrogation. Fortunately, Solas was not the only one capable of misdirection.

“So tell us more about Bianca.”

“Hmm, I’m not making any promises here,” he warned, raising his voice as we approached the thundering waterfall.

“How did you meet?” I opted for something safe, easy.

“I met her years ago in Kirkwall when I was looking for someone with…mechanical skills. Bianca is, without a doubt, the most brilliant smith you’ll ever meet. I haven’t seen her since she got married and moved to Orlais.”

My mouth formed a perfectly round “O” of unvoiced surprise. So much for safe and easy. Varric’s devotion to Bianca was legendary, and I felt a pang of irritation to discover the feeling was evidently not mutual.

“So how long have the two of you been…?” I trailed off as we crossed the head of the stream.

“Well, if you want to split hairs, we’re not…” he trailed off as well, waving his hand as if he might conjure to right term. “Usually, there’s a continent between us at all times. We write letters, now and then we manage to meet up…I don’t know if that’s ‘together.’ Shit, it’s been what, fifteen years? Great. Now I feel old.”

“What in the world happened?”

“We almost started a clan war, does it matter? I can’t change it now.”

“No wonder you write such compelling drama,” said Cassandra. “You live it yourself!”

“Ha! Maybe, but it’s the one story I’ll never tell. And why bother? My agent’s convinced _The Herald and the Hermit_ will mop up after _The Hawke and the Wolf;_ thought that one was a little too angsty.”

I stopped suddenly on the grassy bank, and Cassandra nearly bowled me over.

“Tell me you’re joking.”

“No way, everyone loves a good Bloomingtide/Haring romance! Two elven mages in a story of their own? It’s never been done, I’ll have the whole genre to myself.”

“Oh my gods.” He wasn’t even remotely joking.

“The wild Dalish and a quiet city scholar,” he continued, “overcoming the odds, saving the world, magic in the air… It’s gonna be huge.”

“S, O, L, A, S,” said Solas, climbing the rock formation up to the waterfall. “It’s quite commonly misspelled.”

“Oh my gods.” He wasn’t even remotely joking either.

“You are a remarkable woman, vhenan. Stories will be told. At least you might trust Master Tethras not to twist them in the telling. Few heroes have the luxury of choosing their biographer.”

“I’ll only need a couple of quick interviews, just to clear up the bits I didn’t see for myself.”

“No, no, no. After that business with Viuus and Dorian, I’ve made peace with _fiction;_ at least it leaves my privacy intact.”

“And what of your legacy?” asked Solas. 

“Either I defeat Corypheus or I don’t, I hardly see how it matters what people think of me when it’s done.”

Varric laughed without smiling. “Ask Hawke about that sometime.”

My stomach twisted. Despite his glowing portrait of Kirkwall’s Champion, Hawke had been turned out of the city she called home and driven underground as an apostate. And Solas was right, my legacy would have lasting implications. Not only for the Dalish, but all elves; perhaps mages too. Gods knew how heavily each of those factors had been held against me when Cassandra first hauled my ass out of the Chantry dungeon.

“…I’ll think about it.”

Two small nugs scattered from sight as we entered the shady cave behind the waterfall, scampering and squealing down the hill behind us. Solas twisted to give me access to his pack, and I fished up the key to Valammar we’d stowed away earlier. It was a heavy thing, black and twisted with age. I threw the bolt to the door and we stepped inside, adjusting to the dim afternoon light that filtered down through the ravine above us.

“Finally, I started to think you weren’t coming!”

Bianca was standing in the shadows, hood pulled down to obscure her face, and she sounded more than a little put out.

“Nobody said you had to hang out in the creepy cave while you waited,” Varric admonished, his tone inscrutable.

“Well, I did wait, so let’s make this quick,” she said, stepping into the wan light.

She gave me something of a friendly nod, we’d met earlier in the day, but eyed Solas and Cassandra with suspicion before turning to lead us toward the wide stone bridge. I could see a few darting shadows move along the fringes, then a boulder whistled past my ear as Solas cleared the path across.

Bianca turned to raise an eyebrow in thanks; she hadn’t even had time to nock an arrow. Her simple bow seemed a curious choice for an accomplished smith, but then again I suppose June himself would have carried nothing more. I’d heard it said that truly accomplished masters most often preferred the simplest of tools.

I drew my staff and swept the tip along the floor, bringing it up in a tight hip turn to cast lightning into the shadows; Varric sent a spray of arrows across the terrace. We could count the bodies by their sudden cries. He bumped my fist with his and winked.

“So this is what you do now?” Bianca looked at Varric askance.

“Beg pardon?”

“Skulking around in caves, shooting guys. This your day to day?”

“You’re the one who brought us here,” I reminded her, feeling protective on his behalf.

We proceeded down to the lower level, handily clearing out the few straggling Carta thieves we encountered. Along the nearest wall, Bianca led us to a doorway that had been locked on our previous visit, unyielding even to Cole.

“I built these doors,” she explained as she worked the lock. “They probably shut this one from the other side when they heard the ruckus. Ta-da.”

“You’ve been here often enough to renovate the cave?”

“I don’t know if Varric’s told you,” she said sharply, “but the Merchants’ Guild is cutthroat.”

“You don’t say.”

“I built the doors to keep rivals from following me down here and arranging ‘accidents.’”

“I guess it’s a good thing you came along then.”

“I get that a lot,” she said, cocking her head to regard me with some distaste. “After you.”

Even in the dark, I was aware of at least three sets of flickering eyes. I stepped forward on my right foot and threw my marked hand into the air, tearing a perfectly spherical Rift into the center of the room and wheeling my staff around to cast a ring of lightning. The Carta thugs were almost immediately eaten up by the energy; Solas cast nothing nor did Cassandra draw her sword.

I was beginning to wonder exactly why Bianca had brought us here; if she were even remotely competent with her bow she might have handled it herself. As we progressed through the chamber, I could feel the hum of red lyrium in the stone beneath my feet. Its song was anxious, needy, jealous.

Deeper in, red lyrium was scattered all about. Piled up in hand carts, growing from the walls, in broken bits scattered across the floor. For the first time in my life, I would have been glad for boots. Solas lazily stretched out his arm and cast a gravity well, sending all the little shards and fragments into a tidy pile in the corner so that we could walk unafraid.

Not that Bianca paid him any mind. She strode through the room and straight to a simple wooden desk, producing an ornately fashioned key from the top drawer. In a moment more, she’d locked a nearby door without bothering to open it first. I saw in Varric’s expression I wasn’t alone in finding her behavior a little suspect.

“Bianca…”

“You were the one who leaked the thaig’s location,” I was not asking.

“It’s not like that, not…entirely. Shit,” she turned around to face us. “When I got the location, I went and had a look for myself. And I found the red lyrium and I studied it.”

Varric was in her face. “You know what it does to people!”

“I just wanted to figure it out.”

“Did you?” I asked.

“Actually, yes. I found out that red lyrium…It has the blight, Varric! Do you know what that means?”

“What? That two deadly things combine to form something super-awful?”

“Lyrium is alive,” I supplied.

“Or something like it,” Bianca cautioned. “I couldn’t get any further on my own, so I looked for a Grey Warden mage. Blight and magical expertise in one, right? And I found this guy, Larius. He seemed really interested in helping my research, so I gave him a key.”

“Larius? He was the Grey Warden we met in Corypheus’s— Oh, shit.”

“I didn’t realize until you said you found red lyrium at Haven. I came here and, well…”

“Wait, Larius is the—”

“He was at the Grey Warden prison where we found Corypheus. And he definitely wasn’t a mage before.”

Oh, gods. I knew how _that_ particular story ended. Hawke had explained it to us all in her initial report, and that meant Bianca had been dealing with Corypheus himself.

With Varric and Bianca in obvious need of a heart to heart about her indiscretion, Solas and I walked off a few paces while Cassandra roamed the chamber, methodically divesting the Carta thugs of anything useful. I leaned against the ornately carved wall so peculiar to thaigs while Solas stood ramrod straight.

“That would mean Corypheus has been quietly building power in the Deep Roads,” I whispered, “for what, three years?”

“So it would seem.”

“And the Wardens have been compromised ever since…”

However carefully neutral his features, he was seething at Bianca. I absently thumbed the grip of my staff.

“When he caught me, back in Haven, Corypheus told me I’d interrupted a ritual years in the planning,” I said. “But what took him so long? With all that red lyrium he could have unlocked the orb ages ago. Why wait till the conclave?”

Solas pressed his lips into a hard line, shook his head.

“Maybe he didn’t have it then,” I ventured.

I slid down the wall to the floor and began unknotting the halla wool rope I kept lashed to my staff. It was a very subtle sort of fire magic, each knot a simple rune and a prayer all at once.

“Sylaise!”

Solas looked down at me. “Are you praying or swearing?”

“Thinking,” I corrected, pinching his smallest toe. “Well, praying a little, which reminded me of how you said the foci channeled power from the gods.”

“Yes.”

“So which god did the orb belong to?”

“A very good question, though perhaps less relevant than whom it belongs to now.”

“True,” I said, reknotting the rope and twisting it back into its patterned place. “But you’ve got to be a little curious.”

“I have yet to find any such answers within the ancient texts.”

Just then, Varric strode past us with Bianca trailing after.

“Varric!”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, so softly and so quietly that my heart broke for him. Bianca paused and turned to me.

“Get him killed, and I’ll feed you your own eyeballs, Inquisitor.” 

It was no coincidence that Solas shifted to step on the hem of my robes, because I had every intention of flying to my feet and hurling her into a wall. He’d seen Sera push me over that same edge on any number of occasions; I had no patience for a threat.

“Fenedhis lasa, durgen’len. I’m not the one supplying red lyrium to Corypheus.”

For one brief moment, I thought she might actually kick me, and it would have been glorious. But instead, she narrowed her eyes and stalked from the room as if she were still somehow the offended party. All in all, if I had to chose between Biancas, I’d opt for the crossbow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *alas means "the earth" in elven (yes, I know it's Elvish, but I can't abide that word; it's like The King of Rock and Roll with a lisp)
> 
> Bloomingtide/Haring are the equivalent months for a May/December romance in Thedas. XD
> 
> Given that Varric will grill Cassandra/M!Inky about their relationship if Cassandra asks about Bianca, I definitely think he'd turn the tables on a curious Lavellan.
> 
> Lastly: I think Bianca's lyrium addled. She came across as super antagonistic in my playthrough (her parting words didn't seem like a joke to me at all) and I was ready to kill her. I'd been hoping all along that she was a magical spirit that actually lived in Varric's crossbow (like all those enchanted swords in fantasy) so having her just be a regular old dwarf was a major let down. I wanted more for my VareBare.


	48. The Elven Gods Existed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This incorporates two companion dialogues from the game, the follow up with Varric after "Well, Shit" and a banter between Solas and Cassandra on religion. I felt like, in the heat of both, a Dalish Inquisitor would have a lot to think and say for herself.

I couldn’t resist a stay at the Upper Lake Camp. It was selfish, to be sure, but I had so few occasions to sleep in the woods that I could push Varric and Cassandra’s preference for Skyhold to the back of my mind. Lake Luthias was safe and familiar; a place of comfort where I would gladly linger if only to soothe the nagging worry of Bianca’s revelation.

The woman had disappeared by the time we’d climbed back down from the waterfall, but Varric said it was to be expected. Even in the Hinterlands, they couldn’t risk being seen together thanks to some dodgy Merchants’ Guild vendetta. Good riddance, so far as I was concerned.

Fortunately, the Requisitions Officer always kept a vat of pottage on the fire, so we took our supper under the stars after shucking our armor. I brought a bowl to Varric, which he accepted with a tired smile, and sat down beside him on an overturned barrel someone had rolled into camp. Snuggled close, we could afford an approximation of privacy.

“How’re you feeling?”

“I’m glad to have answers,” he rasped, “but, shit.”

Blackwall’s past coming to light had been difficult and remained so as most of our companions took his deception personally, though I still held that he hadn’t actually betrayed or hurt the Inquisition in any measurable way. Bianca, on the other hand, shared a secret that wasn’t hers to share and helped Corypheus to an extent that was hard to overstate. A steady supply of red lyrium and unfettered access to the Deep Roads? That meant strength and stealth and years of safe harbor underground.

“The second she showed up here, I knew. I just…I let this mess happen.”

I leaned into him until our shoulders bumped. “You can’t be faulted for trusting someone you love.”

I said no more; Varric knew betrayal better than most. From Anders to Bartrand and now Bianca; he must have kept a horrible list of _what ifs._ He certainly didn't need me to heap coals onto that fire; not when he still held himself somehow responsible for Corypheus escaping the Warden prison.

“The point is, I don’t deal with things. If Cassandra hadn’t dragged me here, I would be in Kirkwall right now pretending none of this was happening.”

At the sound of her name, Cassandra looked up from across the fire but said nothing to interrupt me.

“Think what you will, Varric, but this isn’t your mess to clean up. Corypheus has and has always been the driving force behind this disaster, we’re all just casualties.”

“Except if Bartrand and I hadn’t—”

“Then why not go back a step more and blame Anders for stealing the Deep Roads map that got you there in the first place?”

“Why am I not surprised to hear of another Grey Warden in this misbegotten tale?” Solas frowned; his mood had darkened considerably since we left Valammar, and he made no pretense of eating.

“Cassandra, why do you think Corypheus chose the Temple of Sacred Ashes?” I asked, hoping to refocus the blame where it belonged.

She laughed without mirth, “The magisters of Tevinter despise our Chantry and our Divine.”

“Hubris,” said Solas. “So he might rise to divinity on the back of another.”

“Then why not attack at the heart of it all in Val Royeaux? Why cross the Waking Sea to Ferelden?”

“He’s crazy, Boots. There’s no understanding it. When his cranky ass woke up, first order of business was praying to Dumat and demanding our fealty.”

“All the more reason to go back to Tevinter, seek help from the somnoborium of his own gods. How does an orb associated with the elven pantheon come into play?”

“Perhaps he wished to defile all the gods of Thedas,” said Cassandra. 

“Or maybe the elven gods are more powerful,” I suggested.

“Well, that’s my cue,” said Varric, rising to his feet. “After nearly a decade stuck between Daisy and Sebastian, the last thing I want to hear is another debate on elven/human religion. Goodnight, everyone.”

I wobbled on the barrel as it rolled back, but it was morbid curiosity that made me grab the hem of his duster.

“No, no, you have to tell me what Merrill said.”

“Not much to tell,” he said. “She believes the Creators abandoned your people for not being elfy enough when shit went down in Arlathan.”

“Oh, okay,” I laughed, releasing him. “Enjoy your dreamless sleep.”

He patted my shoulder once before disappearing into the shadows, ever the rogue.

“Why is that so funny?” Cassandra asked, and I waited until my ears caught the rustling of a tent flap by the water’s edge before responding in a hushed tone.

“Because his friend Daisy is unhinged. She can’t conceive of a world where the gods could be betrayed as easily as she betrayed her Keeper and her clan. Fuck that; the Dalish don't need Firsts like that. The Dread Wolf can keep her.”

“And yet you worship him, do you not?”

Cassandra and I had often spoke on matters of faith back in Haven, so she had at least a passing familiarity with my thoughts on the pantheon, though she seemed to think gods were something I collected and once asked why I did not add the Maker to my prayers.

“Fearfully so; he earned the right.”

“This I did not know,” said Solas, raising an eyebrow.

“Have you ever inquired after my beliefs, or do you just pocket them as keepsakes?”

I put no malice in the words, and he splayed a hand to concede my point— the most he’d ever done to acknowledge the fate of my sylvanwood ring. Cassandra probably missed the reference, but she could not disguise her curiosity on the subject. 

“Solas, if you do not mind me asking, what do you believe in?”

“Cause and effect,” he said matter-of-factly, “wisdom as its own reward, and the inherent right of all free willed people to exist.”

“That is not what I meant,” she said.

“I know,” he smiled. “I believe the elven gods existed, as did the old gods of Tevinter. But I do not think any of them were gods, unless you expand the definition of the word to the point of absurdity. I appreciate the idea of your Maker, a god that does not need to prove his power. I wish more such gods felt the same.”

I couldn’t help but laugh; emma lath believed in our gods, but appreciated the Maker. Cassandra couldn’t have asked for a better evangelical _in_.

“You have seen much sadness in your journeys, Solas. Following the Maker might offer some hope.”

“I have people, Seeker. The greatest triumphs and tragedies this world has known can all be traced to people.”

“The gift of free will is ours to abuse or to honor,” she agreed. “On that we can agree.”

She rose and tossed her bowl and tankard into a wash bin, then nodded her goodnights. Solas returned the gesture and I managed a smile as she walked past to join Varric in his tent. That’s how it had always been in the early days, when I’d been too damn scared of humans and dwarves to sleep by anyone but Solas. I didn’t realize it then, but it was a testament to Varric’s compassion that he consented to the arrangement. Or perhaps he’d seen how poorly the Dalish handled culture shock.

I was glad that we’d fallen back into that familiar pattern. Solas and I only rarely bunked together in camp, but we had not spent a night apart since…well, since. Yet something prickled beneath our conversation that night, the edge of tension that always cut along our differences, and I was not sure how it would play out.

“I still want to know which god the orb belonged to.”

“It would be far more pertinent for us to learn how Corypheus thwarts death with the Grey Wardens.” 

“Yes, well, you’re not the who’s been branded.”

“Is that how you think of the Anchor?” His features softened dramatically, and he came to sit beside me.

I dropped my head on his shoulder. It did feel like a brand, something I’d burned myself on by mistake, and there wasn’t a mage in Thedas who didn’t immediately peg its energy as elven and strange. Solas had told me long ago it was the power of our gods, but the reality of that statement had only begun to sink in. At first, I had been too overwhelmed by Skyhold, by my smite, by our time in the Fade, by the machinations of Halamshiral...But now, the implications seemed almost unavoidable and the Creators no longer felt so abstract.

“What if it’s Elgar’nan?” I whispered.

“That would trouble you?”

“Of course it would trouble me! I’m not keen on being alight with vengeance.”

Solas snaked one arm around my waist, pulling me closer. “And who would you prefer?”

“I should think it obvious,” I teased.

He twisted to kiss my forehead, right in the tangle of the sylvanwood on my brow. “Why June?”

I grinned, for once having caught him in a trap of my own. “So you do recognize my vallaslin. And what Dalish would teach you such a thing? It's very private.”

“They are very clearly tree branches,” he said in his best hahren voice. “It should be obvious to anyone familiar with Dalish lore.”

I hummed with good natured skepticism, he'd probably watched the ritual in the Fade.

“The other gods created out of nothingness, or out of destruction— even Sylaise needed wood to burn. But June taught us how to use what we already have, how to make the most of the world we’ve been given. That’s always seemed beautiful to me.”

“And you would bear his mark twice?”

“Better him than Falon’Din or—”

“You should not dwell on it.”

“But when the orb has been recovered, do you think we can puzzle out who it belonged to?”

“I am certain of it.”

It contented me to have anything aside from death and destruction waiting on the other side of the battle to come. What more was there to say? I stood and offered Solas my hand, tugging him to his feet. There was something stormy to his gaze in the firelight, perhaps from all the dry observations on religion he was willing to swallow on my behalf.

That was alright. If he could leave room for my belief, I could leave room for his objectivity.

We stood for a moment regarding each other; I was still overwhelmed by how much had changed between us in only a few weeks. Solas was hungry in a way I’d never known a man to hunger before, and it never failed to twist at the heart of me to know I stood at the center of it. It put fire into our skirmishes with the templars and our conversations at Skyhold, and when we were left alone it seemed to consume us.

It couldn’t burn forever, I knew better than to think any relationship could maintain such relentless intensity, but for the moment it was everything.

The dirt still felt warm beneath my toes and the night air was mild, so instead of ducking into the tent just beside the campfire, I took slow steps along the southern path back toward Valammar. It would, perhaps, be my only chance in the foreseeable future to have him as I longed too— away from human beds and buildings and the tents of the Inquisition.

I put a gentle sway into my hips and set each footstep one in front of the other, then unfastened the belt that held my loose robes in place. I spared a glance over my shoulder as they fell free, satisfied to see Solas following a few paces behind, something fierce in his gaze.

There was a blur of motion and light and then he had my back against a tree. I laughed, reveling in the feel of rough bark against my skin and the surprising ways in which Solas always brought his magic to bear. I looked up at him, the Anchor casting emerald light into the trees above, and ran my tongue along his neck before nipping at the edge of his jaw.

“Who do you think I belong to?” I whispered, my tone a clear departure from our previous conversation.

“Me.”

I leaned up on tiptoes to put my mouth on his, rocking myself against him to be clear that I agreed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merrill does talk about Fen'Harel a lot, swears by him, tells the tale of the sylvanwood ring, etc, but it's unclear that she actually believes the tale is literally true. In her banter with Sebastian, she says the Creators abandoned the elves, and that the Dalish must prove themselves true elvhen before they would return. So I'm just going to say that's the part that stuck out to Varric.
> 
> Actually, Fen'Harel comes up so much in DA2 that I often wonder if Fenris was meant as a test run for what they did with Solas: an elf with a mysterious past, an unusual connection to the Fade, unaware of his true name, his wolfish nature implied, his passion for freedom and against slavery quite clear. He's disdainful of elves both city and Dalish, gains the sword of Shartan, the book of Shartan, and even breaks up with Hawke (ALTHOUGH AT LEAST HE RETURNS TO HER).


	49. Leaf-Eared Lover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's fun to imagine the Inquisitor could puzzle out the mystery of Solas, but realistically you'd have to be insane to jump to Ancient Elf or Deity without first considering some legit, rational possibilities. She knows Solas doesn't belong, but she can only explain that by looking at the ways in which she herself does not belong (race, class, culture, and, okay, magic).

I woke before Solas on the small island in the middle of Luthias, snapping back into my body after a strange night of wandering the Fade. For the first time since _ar lath ma,_ he had not joined me, though it felt selfish to pout when he had one leg slung over mine and a hand grasping at my breast, his thumb worrying across my nipple.

I eased myself from his hand, it had been the tightness of his grip that woke me, and twisted in his arms to find his forehead creased with worry. Deprived of one comfort he took another, palming my ass, and I couldn't help but chuckle. If he’d been another man I would have tried to wake him, but I knew better than to draw him from the Fade without good reason. Instead, I brushed my knuckles across his temple to smooth away the scowl.

My fingers twitched to cast a fire rune deep in the earth beneath us to drive away the dew, and I shifted so his head fell against my chest. 

The sun was newly up and casting long shadows through the crumbling Avaar ruins around us, and I wondered if that’s where he’d gone. We shared a fascination with Tyrdda Bright-Axe, could each recite all six stanzas by heart. Sometimes, when it suited him, he’d bury himself inside me with a whispered fragment of verse.

_Beast no blade could break came roaring, mountains slipped their winter gown…_

I’d never expected to fall for a scholar, the sort of man who’d bring poetry to passion. It certainly wasn’t the Dalish way of things, but rather something to be expected of a courtier. Indeed, the more time we spent together in the wake of Halamshiral where I’d stepped into the Winter Palace as a pretender, the more I came to realize what others could not— Solas was pretending too.

Once my second-hand hurt subsided, I thought it remarkable that Dorian was able to recognize something unique about Solas belonging to neither the city elves nor the Dalish. Yet by turning it into a joke about snowflakes he'd missed the obvious implication: Solas had been raised among nobility.

If not in alienages or aravels, where else did the elves find shelter? In every palace, castle, chateau, and dog-lord manor. 

In Briala and Fenris I’d come to know this shadow caste: minds and tongues sharper than their ears, quick to puzzle out political posturing, fluent in many languages, savvy to the corrupting influence of power, fond of fine wine and freedom, and proud to a fault of their shemlen lovers.

Solas hid it well. In the homespun cloth of his robe, the scarcity of his possessions, his bare feet, and the pelts and bones and crystal trappings of a shaman. He hid himself in spells that burned bright and careless, in the humility of an elven servant at Halamshiral where I’d never seen him more confident. In darker moments, I feared he hid it in me as well, a leaf-earned lover to cover his disdain for the Dalish.

He hid himself well enough to fool those like Vivienne accustomed to looking down, but with Solas I was ever and always looking up.

I thought the measured cadence to his voice spoke of formal education, and I saw culture in the flowing curve of his script. He kept stacks of books in languages both ancient and modern, but never paused to consult them when translating for us in the field. There was social sophistication in his gentle laugh and nobility in the persistent tilt of his chin— what city elf ever learned to hold his head so high?

In a thousand tiny ways that any vagrant could see, Solas did not belong.

I’d spent my life living hand to mouth, so I found our differences stark and sometimes shameful. When my dirty feet met his pink and clean in our silken sheets, when Josephine stole away my threadbare tunics while his were always carefully mended... Even when Solas surprised me with frilly cakes in bed, and I could only pretend to enjoy them, far too rich and sweet for an elf who’d never tasted more than a lick of honey from bee-stung fingers.

The entire Inquisition jokingly resigned his eccentricities to the fade, but the truth was that no one cared. We had apostates on the loose, undead rising, a war torn empire to rebuild, templars smuggling lyrium, and Corypheus on the horizon. If one unassuming elf seem to know too much, what of it? Shemlen society preferred its elves invisible; at the Winter Palace, no one even noticed us murdered one by one.

As Solas slept in my arms, frowning in the Fade, I puzzled out a theory of my own.

He’d been born in a village to the north, perhaps his mother a lady-in-waiting to Teyrna Cousland in Highever or his father a steward to Bann Trevelyan in Ostwick, if not the gentle prince of Starkhaven. I could conceive of no other station that would embolden an elven woman to name her son Pride.

In a noble house, a bright elven child with clever ears could listen, absorb some little lord’s lessons for himself and build hope for the future. If he showed promise he might receive lessons of his own in turn: horseback riding, archery, courtly graces, and leisurely pursuits to while away time with the master. There was no lord in Thedas that did not value a well trained elf— the indignity of the sentiment burned me deeply enough to think shame alone would keep Solas from confessing.

It was no wonder Solas softened around Sera, cheering for Red Jenny as she chipped away at the aristocracy from the inside out.

Such a life would neatly account for his competence in ballrooms and battlefields alike, as well as his fastidious manner and refined tastes. I imagined he fled when his power grew beyond hiding, or more likely when his thirst for knowledge exceeded what he found among the shem. So he’d sought shelter among the Dalish, found peace for a time, perhaps love or at least someone to warm his bed. Since he would not take vallaslin, it was inevitable that they would turn him out, so Solas would have wandered until he found another clan to begin the cycle again. Until….

I could all too easily imagine a thousand ways such circumstances might eventually drive a mage to something as dark as _harellan._ Was it an accident or the same righteous rage that killed those mages in Dirthavaren? The Nightmare could have simply said _traitor_ to stir Cassandra and the others against him, but he’d chosen something Dalish, he'd chosen something to undermine _my_ confidence. But why?

Oh, gods, not knowing was so much worse than whatever it was. I held Solas more tightly, his wolf bone amulet sharp against my skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know that there are eight-stanzas to Tyrddas's story, but alas Rial does not. I'd like to imagine, sad sack that he is, that Solas would see himself in the story-- what's this, a mysterious elven lover with an implied supernatural origin and a penchant for laughter who guides a mortal to victory only to abandon her when it's through?!?!
> 
> Considering Rial read Tale of the Champion, she'd be hip to Varric's characterization of Fenris, so that's why I've lumped him in with Briala.
> 
> Oh you guys, I can't put it off for much longer. The Arbor Wilds...Oh, gods. It can't be long now...Abelas is going to ruin her little fairy tale theory.


	50. It Was A Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter came so close to being thrown away because...just because. Yet here you go.

The Crow Fens proved to be a rather abysmal sort of place despite the stark beauty of lily pads floating on the glassy water. In a single day we’d killed a dozen common wyverns, found a fade rift to close, and even slain a high dragon, yet the snowy wyvern eluded us. I’d begun to wonder if it were the terribly fearsome creature Vivienne suggested, or merely rare.

We’d stayed overnight at the Fens Camp to ensure our mounts would be fresh for the ride back to Skyhold the moment we’d killed one. Even with ice and an enchanted container from Dagna, time would be of the essence— there were precious few hours for Vivienne to craft a potion from a white wyvern’s heart. As it stood, the heart was still out there, somewhere, beating.

I hadn’t been keen on the task, but I’d played enough of The Game to know that helping Vivienne would buy her continued loyalty for a time. She was an unstoppable force with her spirit blade, and I was not eager to lose her favor while Corypheus held a dragon by the tail.

So before such matters grew urgent, I brought Cole and Blackwall with me and Solas to Ghilan'nain’s Grove in search of the beast. I hadn’t intended for Solas to come along; he’d been slipping deeper and deeper into his research and it seemed a shame to distract him. Besides that, we hadn’t traveled to Dirthavaren together since his friend was killed and I figured he’d be loathe to help Vivienne even indirectly.

Yet when I’d popped into the rotunda to say my goodbyes, he’d pinned me to the wall and declared that I could not escape him so easily. It sent my heart skipping to think he was the one who could not bear a night apart. _My time with you is precious,_ he’d said. So I’d made a show of urging Vivienne to remain at Skyhold to prepare for her concoction, and the four of us set out on our own.

After a day in the Fens, we were ready to be done. I moved carefully through the marsh, mindful of things hidden in the placid water that rose about my waist. Humans would never appreciate the sensation, but to feel the broken bones and rotted wood and crumbling ruins beneath my toes told me so much more about the place than a booted foot would ever know. It made history something real, something solid and true instead of mere words on a page. Ugly things lurked beneath the surface to be sure, but they were no less ugly if I avoided them.

Ahead of me, Blackwall crashed through the marsh in careless splashes, but Cole and Solas picked their way through with great care, neither leaving more than a ripple in the water that reached only their thighs.

“He stands tall. So tall. None like him, my Pride. I love him, I love him, I love him,” said Cole, and I flushed to the tips of my ears.

“Cole,” Solas cautioned.

Cole cocked his head, latching onto some new thread that only he and Solas understood.

“It was a game, but more than a game. It meant he would get a family.”

“Competition brings passion, Cole, and passion lets people attach import to trivial things.”

“Why didn't they help at the end?”

“People wish to accomplish the truly great things on their own.”

“They didn't give the boy what he wanted,” Cole lamented.

“They did,” said Solas. “The boy got a family.”

“They gave him a new one. He wanted his old one. I would have done it better,” he all but pouted.

“The wise must sometimes give people what they need, not what they want.”

I skimmed up a lily pad from the water, wondering: was Solas that boy? Did he compete in a tourney, get traded from one noble house to another?

“Oy, what’s this?”

My thoughts were cut short at Blackwall’s interjection, and I glanced up to see a statue jutting up between the lily pads. Blackwall pulled up a waterlogged journal, legible only because of a mild enchantment on the pages. I glanced through it, laughing at the Orlesian scholar who dubbed it “Broken Dog” when it was clearly a wolf.

I would have been content to leave the blighted thing alone had not Cole put too fine a point on it.

“So many eyes peering from underneath.”

For an instant, one perfect memory from before I’d woken up in Haven churned to the surface: twisted rocks in the fade, sickly green light, burning pain in my palm, and six red eyes stalking from the shadows. I froze, then dragged my eyes down to the water where the wolf head was thrown back in a howl. It was one thing to walk away from Fen’Harel’s statue, but another to do so after a spirit suggested his many eyes were watching. 

“Blackwall, would you help me?”

“My lady?”

“I need to pull this thing out of the water, it’s too heavy.”

“Alright, let’s see.”

He moved beside me and I stepped back to give him room as he rocked the stone in the water, freeing it from the muck. Then with a heave-ho he lifted it into his arms and stood.

“Tell me we’re not carrying the mutt back to Skyhold.”

“No, no. Here,” I said, guiding him with my hands to position the stone where it had once belonged. “Can you hold it there?”

“Like this?”

“Perfect.”

I shouldered my staff and placed my palms on the broken stone, pushing a little to line up the edges. Then I let my eyes roll back as I found the magic still within it, a remnant of some long dead Keeper. I called to the song of its carving and laced it with my own magic, a spell that I hadn’t used in years. There was an awful scraping sound as the pieces joined together, and then it was done.

Blackwall stepped back in surprise, but the statue held. I touched my forehead to the stone, but stopped the enansal on my tongue. 

“Can you all just…give me a moment?” 

“He wants to watch you worship,” said Cole and I chuckled, quite certain Solas would have a few choice opinions on the grammar of my prayers, not to mention their content. Then again, “he” might have been Blackwall— from Cassandra I’d learned how curiously Andrastians regarded Dalish belief.

“Even so. This is between me and Fen’Harel.”

It was Blackwall who cleared his throat, leading the retreat on my behalf. When they’d sloshed off a few yards, I cast a spirit ward around the statue, familiar magic that I hadn’t called on since leaving my clan, then took a moment to clean away the creeping moss and driftwood piled up at its base.

I stood on my toes to lay a kiss on the wolf’s neck, the sort of fearful offering only a Keeper might give.

“Na’durgen melava tel’enaste, ir abelas. Na’nan nadas, Fen’Harel, sa’vunin sahlin serannas, emma halani tu’solas.”

Satisfied that I’d honored whatever duties I still carried as First, I rejoined the others on the rocky knoll where they sat sipping restoratives. Solas passed two vials to me, a restorative and a lyrium.

“I believe I sense one of the artifacts of my people,” he said, nodding in a northerly direction.

I wasn’t even sure he realized the jab; whenever I did something just a little too Dalish, his pronouns shifted. The elves. My people... I popped the cork on the restorative and took it all at once, shuddering at the fresh wave of energy that raced through me, but I held back on the lyrium. Solas misjudged; my mana reserves were not so low.

“Lead on, hahren.”

Relaxing into the energy of the veil, I could sense it too, and was chagrined when we stepped forward together in perfect unison. There was an odd mix of comfort and exasperation in the way he could, from moment to moment, other me as Dalish while remaining so perfectly in synch with my movements.

Of course it turned out that the blighted artifact was at the base of the most elaborate shrine to Fen’Harel I’d ever seen, a huge stone mass nearly half the length of the great hall. I left Solas to activate the device while I ascended the steps and walked across the narrow pier. At the end stood two howling wolves: one white, one black. Between them, a stone alter laid with bowls of water and a vase of bulrushes.

In a moment, I felt the warmth of Solas at my back.

“There was once an eluvian here,” he said, gesturing to the shape between the wolves.

Indeed, the outline would have perfectly fit Morrigan’s towering eluvian, and I felt a rush of excitement to think of the place as a bustling intersection in ancient times. I turned around with my back to the alter, softening my voice so it would not carry.

“If we slept here, do you think we could dream back far enough to see The People?”

He shook his head. “I would not recommend it; too many restless spirits are drawn to this place.”

“Do you think he came here?”

“The wolf?”

“Or the man,” I shrugged, reaching back to grab a bulrush as if from a quiver, then nocking it into an invisible bow. I took careful aim at Solas, smiling. “I don’t suppose paws could manage felassan.”

“I presume it’s a metaphor,” he said dryly.

“You sound like Mother Giselle.”

He laughed. “A wise woman.”

“C’mon,” I said, dropping the bulrush. “Let’s find our wyvern.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO MANY NOTES. 
> 
> Based on what little we know of elvish, Rial's prayer: "I sorrow that your stone is not cared for. Your vengeance is inevitable, Fen’Harel, so on that day, remember this moment, when I helped you to stand [tall].” It seems like the sort of placating prayer a Keeper might offer: I scratch your back, you leave me the fuck alone.
> 
> Seriously, the Dread Wolf imagery in the Exalted Plains is out of control, from the giant Wolf statue looming on the horizon to the Broken Dog statue and the Offering to the Dread Wolf shrine, plus it's home to Solas' most significant personal quest and a Dalish clan. So much elfy goodness! The shrine really does have a vase of bulrushes, for what it's worth.
> 
> “So many eyes peering from underneath," is what Cole says after discovering the Broken Dog statue in-game, and in the healer's notes, the Inquisitor was said to be muttering about "too many eyes" before being given over to Solas' care. Since Solas says he searched for her in the fade, I'm just going to assume she caught sight of the Dread Wolf.
> 
> Lastly, my own wild theory about the Cole/Solas "It was a game" banter-- I think that Fen'Harel was one of the Forgotten Ones and through some sort of competition/arranged marriage/truce he was given to the Creators. Historically, isn't that how most peace treaties are arranged, a trade of hostages? That would explain how he so easily walked between both groups and how he held their trust equally, and it would do a lot to explain the dark edge to his character. He was born to vice, but trained in virtue? And perhaps then, as an outsider looking in, he became more keenly aware of the faults within the Pantheon. I dunno. It's not something I'm 100% sold on, but it's too meaty a dialogue to be a throw-away.
> 
>  **Updated:** if you'd like a totally smutty NSFW follow up to this chapter, I [wrote one.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3770851/chapters/8378695)


	51. Cadash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we discover the events of Witch Hunt might have some dramatic implications after all...

“Knock, knock.”

Dorian’s voice echoed up the stairwell and I set aside my quill, all but finished with a letter to Briala.

“Andaran atishan,” I called out, quickly signing my name and resigning anything else to a post-script.

In a moment, his dark head appeared at the railing, and in a moment more he stood at the top stair. In the fading sunlight streaming through the Dalish stained glass, the caramel colored skin of his bare shoulder darkened to bronze, the ivory leather of his jacket flashed with sapphire, and gold streaked his hair.

Of course he intended to stand exactly where the light would strike him so, there could be no doubt as he lingered on the spot to announce, “I come bearing gifts!”

In one hand he held a crystal decanter by the neck, two fingers hooked into silver rimmed tumblers that scattered rainbows on the floor. In the other, a plate of cheese and charcuterie with a pear balanced in the middle, and a leather bound folio tucked under one arm.

“So you do,” I observed, pushing back from the desk as he crossed the room.

He set down the decanter and tumblers, then tossed the folio in my lap. The binding looked neither fresh nor worn, as if once made it sat untouched for years. The cover was embossed with the unmistakeable heraldry of Neria Surana.

Oh.

I traced the symbol with one finger, awed to be holding something of hers, willing myself to feel some trace of her magic but of course finding none. Solas said that I’d eclipsed her among The People, but I would never believe it true— she was favored by Asha’bellanar, a friend to the Lady of the Forest, and beloved of the king.

“What’s this?”

“An answer to your question.”

The folio appeared to contain a series dwarven letters and field reports, with more recent notes scribbled in the margins by her delicate hand. Some of the pages were clearly ancient and brittle with age, others newly added: tracings, musings, hastily sketched views of what could only be a thaig. My eyes went wide. 

“You’re quite serious! It was just a lark, not even Solas thought the idea had any merit.”

“Well then, it’s a good thing you’ve room in your heart for us both.” He poured a generous splash of brandy into each glass and pushed one my way. “Antivan Sip-Sip.”

I raised it to cheer him and then gestured toward the couch. Dorian collapsed into an elegant heap at one end, arm propped up on the banister, and I sat cross-legged at the other after placing the plate between us.

“Have a look,” he said, breaking a slice of cheese for himself.

I settled the folio into my lap, took a sip of brandy and stole the pear as I began reading in earnest. _Commander Regnar of House Cadash,_ the first page was a letter. _You were wise to send the relic you uncovered. The Shaperate has compared the carvings on it to various records, and believe them to be of elven origin, possibly thousands of years old…_

On and on it went, letters between the Shaper and Commander, excavation workers, and assistants, careful copies of maps, rubbings of strange artifacts, and a fine script in bright blue ink: lights of Arlathan, Ariane’s blood, Asha’bellanar. Oh, gods.

“Dorian, you’re magnificent.”

He pursed his lips in a knowing smile. “I can’t take all the credit, of course. It was a very clever question. ‘Where do the Deep Roads, Grey Wardens, and the relics of Arlathan converge?’ After much research, a trip to Denerim, and a few afternoons with King Alistair, I have your answer.” 

“Well? Where?”

His smoothed his mustache with his thumb and forefinger, a smile growing wide behind his hand. “In the ruin of Cad'halash, rediscovered by the Hero of Ferelden during the Fifth Blight.”

“I’ve never heard of it.”

”The Fifth Blight? Something of a ruckus back—”

“So help me, shemlen, I will—”

“Cad'halash,” he continued unperturbed, “was destroyed in ancient times, but it once provided safe haven to the refugees of Arlathan.”

“Actual elvhen?” I could hardly breathe.

“I’ll leave you to debate such distinctions with Solas,” he said, “but if you mean the elves who took their tea in Arlathan, then yes. Tragically, Kal-Sharok leveled the entire settlement to cement an early alliance with the Imperium. It was later built back up as Cadash Thaig only to fall to darkspawn. Nothing’s left of Cadash today but a house of criminals and layabouts…as well as a ruin positively brimming with elven goodies.”

“Oh my gods. That’s it then. Where Corypheus found the orb.”

“I believe so, yes. Did you know our Sister Nightingale and Lady Morrigan have been to Cadash? With the Hero of Ferelden no less. But according to _these_ notes,” he touched the marginalia, “The Warden-Commander returned there for personal reasons after the Blight.”

“Personal reasons?”

“Her notes are slapdash, but evidently to help the Dalish recover some stolen relic.”

My heart skipped a beat. “What clan?”

He shook his head and took the folio from me, thumbing through the pages. “Solan…?”

I bit my lip, mind racing. “I’ll send a raven to Deshanna.”

Dorian waggled a finger. “Stop chasing rabbits and focus, you’re asking the wrong questions.”

I glared at him and shot the rest of the brandy.

“Poor choice of words,” he scrunched his features in distaste. “My sincere apologies. Inquisit a little harder, my love. There’s one detail you’re missing…”

“Alright. So Hawke and Varric kill Corypheus in the Vinmark Mountains, but somehow he possesses Larius. Eventually he finds Bianca, who gives him the key, access to a primeval thaig, and red lyrium aplenty.”

“And to think she only gave Varric a crossbow. Do go on.”

“As a Grey Warden, the dwarves pay him no mind as he explores the Deep Roads. Years pass, who’s to say how long, but eventually he stumbles upon the orb in the ruins of Cadash. Just like that? The power of a god left out like a plaything waiting to be found?”

Dorian cleared his throat. 

“I should mention that the ruins were once guarded. King Alistair recalled that Neria spoke of fighting ancient elven warriors throughout the ruins, sentinels that would neither speak nor listen.”

It was knowledge and loss in one fell swoop, twisting my stomach. By all accounts Surana had been a friend of the Dalish, formally securing lands for Keeper Lanaya in the Brecilian Forest. At the last Arlathvhen, Lanaya told of how The Warden broke a centuries old curse by befriending a spirit bonded to the Dread Wolf himself. I’d always thought it a testimony of her skill, but now it tasted dark: elvhen woken from uthenera only to be killed by a flat-eared mage.

“Elgar’nan,” I whispered, “So the orb had once been guarded.”

“I should say _something_ was being guarded.”

“So then Corypheus has no trouble in retrieving the orb, but perhaps needed power to activate it. He’s Tevinter so that means blood magic and drama,” I allowed for a wink, “hence Justinia. But why the conclave? Why not do the ritual Val Royeaux?”

“You’re so very close to asking the right question,” Dorian took a sip of his brandy, his eyes quite literally sparkling.

“Where is Cadash?”

A flash of teeth and a grin before he downed his brandy, “Directly beneath Haven.”

“Sweet Sylaise,” I whispered. “That’s how an entire army of Red Templars appeared out of thin air that night in Haven! Dorian this is _everything!_ ”

“We do make a marvelous team,” he said, peeling up a slice of saucisson and dragging it through a bit of grainy mustard. “Congratulations are in order, I believe. If Corypheus is still using this as a base of operation, we may finally go on the offensive.”

“I’ll have Leliana send scouts to the thaig at once.”

Dorian went to fetch the sip-sip, and I snatched up the pile of presunto.

He sighed in exasperation when he saw me, “You’re supposed to…just once slice at a…oh, never mind.”

“I’m too tired to be a human being,” I said around a mouthful, holding up my glass for a top-off.

After he sat down, decanter on the little table beside us, I propped my feet on his leg and returned to the pear, oddly grateful he’d left it whole.

“Did you want Solas to take a look at this or shall I pass it on to Morrigan? She was a friend of The Warden, after all.”

“Morrigan,” I pushed the folio his way. “Solas is absolutely obsessed with the Grey Wardens right now.”

“Can you not divert him?”

“You’re joking. Solas? No, he’s right. Determining how Corypheus can possess the Wardens is crucial whereas this business with Cadash will be more of gamble. Corypheus may well have moved on by now…”

“Don’t underestimate your intuition, they put you in charge for reason.”

The sun had fully set, and Dorian stretched out his hand to bring the candles and hearth to life. For a single moment, I saw him in Redcliffe again, one hand hovering above the amulet suspended by his magic. He was the first human I’d ever trusted, ever loved. Of course he’d listen to me, of course he’d done the research, of course he’d remember that I hated sliced fruit.

“Thank you, lethallin.”

“For charming the King of Ferelden out of his lover’s personal research? My pleasure entirely, you should see that man blush.”

“Not really my thing,” I pushed him with my big toe. “It’s just…I appreciate that you took time away from your own research to look into this. It means a lot to me.”

“Well, don’t let word get ‘round, but _you_ mean a lot to me. Besides,” he said, slapping my leg, “you’d be a rather shabby Inquisitor if you only asked the obvious questions.”

We both glanced up at the sound of the door opening at the foot of the stairwell, and I tipped up my glass to finish the brandy; Josephine really would be disappointed with my inability to savor.

“Quickly, wench, put on your clothes!” Dorian said loudly.

I snorted, biting into the soft pear and sucking just enough to make an obscene sound. The brandy put Dorian on the verge of giggles, but he held back as Solas came into view.

“Ah, Solas, there you are. And here I only brought two tumblers.”

Solas stepped quietly onto the crimson rug in his bare feet and slipped the glass from my hand.

“A third would be superfluous,” he said, filling it for himself.

Dorian huffed as he stood.

“Well, I can see I’ve overstayed my welcome. But congratulations again, little dove.”

He took the folio but magnanimously left the decanter, and I watched him descend the stairs with a purposeful swagger that all but confirmed he was on his way to the tavern. Who ever would have thought: a Qunari and a Tevinter. I stretched out on the newly empty couch as Solas sipped his brandy in that careful way Josephine had shown me. Apostate hobo my ass.

“Congratulations?”

I grinned up at him, “I figured out where the orb came from!”

“Did you?” He asked, taking my pear for himself as well.

“In an abandoned thaig under Haven.”

Solas cocked his head to the side and looked at me in surprise. “Truly?”

“I’m convinced of it.”

He bit into the pear, lost in thought for a moment, then palmed the juice from his chin.

“That is a remarkable discovery, vhenan,” he said, his pale eyes almost too intense. “You are dangerously clever, Corypheus is right to consider you a rival.”

I scrambled into his lap, unreasonably pleased with the compliment. I’d save the bit about the dead elvhen for another occasion, I wanted nothing to spoil the sweetness of his pear stained kisses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm trying to write this lore-friendly, while simultaneously opening the door to my pet theory: that Solas possessed Felassan's body in TME. Why? Because Corypheus as Larius/Janeka pulled a fast one on Fen'Harel while he was still all foggy eyed from uthenara. I think Coryphues killed Fen'Harel, forcing him to be the fade entity that possessed Felassan at the end of TME. This would handily explain why Corypheus didn't recognize him during the final battle, etc.
> 
> Fucking tell me it's a coincidence the dwarven Inquisitor is named Cadash, tell me it's a coincidence Ariane's Keeper is named Solan. Replay Witch Hunt, dig that lore. This is a thing I won't let go.
> 
> If you want to Dorian's Folio, check out [Letters from the Past.](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Codex_entry:_Letters_from_the_Past)


	52. En Vino Veritas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What if Fen'Harel got drunk? What if Solas saw a parallel between his own predicament and Lavellan's experience in Redcliffe? What if Cole's wonderfully cryptic observation about a "voice ringing with fullness" was lifted from the Inquisitor?

We talked and shared the Antivan brandy as we’d once done with a flask in the woods, sipping from the tumbler by firelight until it burned down to embers and the room grew dark but for the candles. I’d long since abandoned the couch to sprawl on the rug at the hearth, far more comfortable away from the back-bending softness of shemlen furniture. Solas had stretched out beside me, tracing the vallaslin up and down my throat with singular interest.

His fingertips felt unusually warm, the Winter Stillness that cooled his skin burned away by the Sip-Sip. We often drank together, and though he was perfectly familiar with my tipsy affection I wasn't sure I'd ever seen him truly drunk. Not that it showed, really. Instead, I found myself confessing something I'd left from my reports to the War Council. Something that only Dorian knew. What was that Tevene saying he'd taught me, _en vino veritas?_

I'd been staring up at the stone owls and reminded of Falon’Din, which sent me wondering if he’d come for Solas when he died or if that other Solas was in some sort of limbo. How did time magic work on those who’ve been guided already into the Beyond? Tears trickled sideways and down to my ears, but it wasn’t a real cry. Not the choking kind. Yet of course Solas noticed and I had to explain.

“I tried to save you,” I said.

“What?”

“In Redcliffe.”

“Vhenan,” he whispered. “You must not torture yourself with that abomination.”

A laugh died on my lips, "That's exactly what the other Solas called it."

Solas looked torn between a wry smile and a frown, which was to say: identical to the Solas who said _I am dying but no matter_.

“Dorian said he’d need an hour to work the spell, but Leliana gave us seconds. It was insane. Who could do an hour of magic in a heartbeat? I didn’t know Dorian then, his little trick for snapping the veil to Focus, but I knew _you_. I knew that if we could stay together, we could escape, and if we could escape you would have a better plan because you'd already spent a year thinking about it. So… before Dorian enchanted the amulet, I asked you if there was another way.”

His fingers went still.

“Your eyes were red and glowing and fierce, then you started to tell me something, but Leliana cut you off. And in the next moment, demons came pouring through, and you were all dead, and it was just me and this shem mage I didn't know and the spell wasn’t done and—”

“Stop. Rial, stop. Look at me, listen to the sound of my voice and breathe. Can you feel my warmth on your skin? I am alive. I am here. That world does not exist.”

“It did. It was real.”

“For a time,” he said sternly. “But you fought your way back so that none of it would come to pass. It never happened.”

He held my gaze, his eyes like ice and so unlike the blazing red of that dying man in Redcliffe. Yet _that_ Solas had known me too, his words sharpening my fear of Corypheus and giving weight to the Inquisition, his sacrifice immeasurably deepening the trust I'd later place in my flat-eared hahren.

“ _All of it happened!_ ” I surged up, unable to remain on my back with the memory of a demon dragging his corpse. “Solas, it was real, you were real, and you died for me!”

In an instant, he was astride me, his mana spilling into me and hands pushing down.

“That world is already gone, and you must let it go.”

The overwhelming fullness of his magic left me gasping, and I shuddered when he snapped it against me again. He didn’t stop even as he wrestled me out of my clothes, and I rebelled by kicking and twisting and pushing and wrenching away if only because I knew how it provoked him. But Solas knew it was a sham even before his fingers found the wetness between my thighs.

His kisses burned with brandy, and I grabbed for him in a thousand places: running my fingers along his jaw, up to the points of his ears and back down to his neck, scrabbling across his shoulders, tugging off the fleece of his shirt, trying to undo the lacing that kept him from me.

Solas shifted to his knees, candlelight flickering over the flat plane of his stomach, trousers parting to reveal the smooth skin below. I rose up to curl my tongue around the base of him and his fingernails scraped behind my ears. I dragged his breeches lower with one hand, pulled him into my mouth with the other, the musk of him anchoring me in the now.

He pressed me back into the rug, kneeling over me with one hand on the back of my neck to cradle my head between his legs. The other hand found my breast, kneading in a way that felt as if he were drawing my mana through the skin only to feed it back to me, letting me suck it from him in one delirious loop that left me wanton and lost.

I could come like that, did come like that, for as long as he would let me.

Then I tipped my head back so he could rock deeper, slide himself down my throat until the rest of him pressed against my chin. It had been a trick practiced over long winters piled up with my lethallin in an aravel, but with Solas it was always a struggle. My hands were on his calves, clenching and unclenching as I fought for air, heart racing at the denial until I couldn’t help but thrash.

“Look at me.”

Somehow I managed to, and the ferocity in his eyes only licked at the throbbing want between my legs. His thumb traced my lips around his cock, and my heart beat faster knowing exactly how I must look to him: cheeks hollow, mouth wide.

“I am not a jealous man, Rial, but I will not share you with a shadow.”

He slid out until the tip of his cock rolled across my lower lip, leaving me to gasp and pant around it. Somehow he’d grounded me, smothered the memory of Redcliff until I lived and breathed for one Solas alone. After I’d caught my breath, he turned me on my stomach to ease between my legs.

We groaned together in satisfaction, as if we had been denied for eons rather than the hours since morning. Every time he slipped inside, my whole world was illuminated. The Fade felt closer, dancing, bright, and every touch an ecstasy. I wondered how Dorian could suffer to be with anyone but a mage, how I’d ever taken pleasure apart from magic.

The searing heat of his tongue traced over my tragus where earlier my tears had rolled past, then he planted a gentle kiss.

“Sleep,” he whispered. “Come to me in the Fade.”

I spasmed around him at the notion. “How can I possibly—”

“Focus,” he rumbled. “That indomitable focus.”

I squirmed…there was absolutely nothing to focus on but the fact that I was speared beneath him. I lifted my hips to grind up against his cock, whimpering despite myself at the sensation and then rocking harder to elicit some sort of response. But Solas only settled himself down, drawing his forearms around me and resting his chin on my shoulder. 

“Or fuck yourself senseless, if that’s what you prefer. I am in no hurry.”

He flexed inside me and I bit back a moan. He could be so outrageously smug about his stamina it was no wonder he’d laughed like Fen’Harel when I once called it into question. Surely he wouldn’t drift away to leave me pinned like that, too wildly aroused to ever find my way into the Fade, stuck for hours... my pulse quickened. He would. He absolutely would.

The a wicked idea came to mind, and I began pulsing my mana in rhythm with my hips, building waves of magic that sloshed between us as I stroked him within me. Solas made dismissive sound as if he were not impressed (liar), and I smirked to think he hadn’t seen the half of it. When our magics felt chaotic and full, and when the tension of his cock running through me felt like more than I could bear, I cast the Anchor.

For one instant I was aware of nothing but clawing, digging, searing pain as his fingernails raked across the backs of my arms, and in the next nothing but a howling roar of pleasure so feral I didn’t even recognize Solas in the sound. I lost all thought in the force of an orgasm fierce enough that it felt like I was tumbling down a mountain, and maybe I was, because when I opened my eyes I found myself standing knee-deep in the snow, blinking and blinded by daylight.

Or…greenish daylight.

It was the Fade, to be sure, but also the Frostbacks. Curious wisps began to gather where I stood— naked though not cold, terribly confused, and perfectly alone. A heartbeat later, hot hands were on me, and Solas was spinning me into his arms with breathless kisses. I tumbled back into a surreal snowdrift, as fluffy and unmelting as a featherbed.

“You wicked thing,” he panted, landing atop me.

In a dreamy blur of motion, he’d sheathed himself once more to light a scorching pleasure along every nerve. He drew back almost in full, then plunged in again with enough force that I was driven into the whiteness all around. It crunched and compacted as snow should, but felt like lyrium tasted: warm and bright and buzzing with magic.

Wisps darted around us, touching down to kiss our skin and dart through our pleasure, harmless and beautiful like fireflies.

I wrapped my legs around his waist, hooking my ankles at his ass to drive him in deeper. Solas arched to suck one nipple into his mouth, tongue swirling it taut. Then it was forgotten and replaced by an overwhelming pressure inside me, a growing tightness that sent me shivering and trembling. I verged on panic for an instant.

“Solas, something’s w—”

I cried out incoherently, awash in what could only be the sweetest, sharpest pleasure he’d ever given me. It felt like I was being fucked from the inside out, the sensations all jumbled and rushing, clenching and shuddering until my legs fell slack. I curled into him so hard I would have pushed him off had he not looped one arm around my waist anchor himself.

With this, his rhythm grew more frantic, his groans more desperate and pleading, until he clenched his teeth and barreled into a climax of his own. The wildness of it caught me in its wake, guiding me through a pleasure as bright and shining as the snow. We floated, adrift in the silence of the Fade.

“Fenedhis lasa,” he breathed.

“Oh my god, Solas.”

“Ar in’ma, vhenan,” he said, voice ringing with a fullness from both worlds that left me gasping.

It was no wonder he called himself Pride; he’d just fucked me on either side of the veil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ar in’ma = I dwell inside you.
> 
> Once again, I am going to go die in quiet shame while my BF tries to figure out why I'm blushing at my laptop.
> 
> During "In Hushed Whispers," the Inquisitor really can ask the party if there's another way (I think most people choose, "I won't let you commit suicide!") but Leliana speaks up before anyone else. I've always wondered if Solas might have briefly considered an alternative, after all that's a loooooot of faith for Fen'Harel put into yet another shemlen mage from Tevinter after having a year to regret Corypheus...


	53. The Arbor Wilds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisition clearly believes the Arbors Wilds will be their last stand against Corypheus, so I have to wonder about how it impacted everything that came after for Solas. Did he fight his way through believing he'd soon have the orb and his plans would be laid bare for an unsuspecting Lavellan? Did the guilt of that force his near-confession afterward?

There were moments that it felt like the Emerald Graves: thick underbrush and ancient ruins, sunlight through trees and babbling water always just out of sight, but the taste of the Arbor Wilds was unique unto itself. The land was tel’enaste to the Dalish, forbidden for reasons long forgotten. I could feel the explanation in the damp earth between my toes, ancient magic permeating the very ground beneath us, waiting for a voice to give it life.

I ran for a while alongside Gaspard, letting him tear a path through the red templars while I kept a barrier tight around us and called up rifts where I could. He was as clever a partner on the battlefield as he’d been in the Winter Palace, and it was an unexpected pleasure to be at his side in a place where I felt more at home.

Even moreso the brief time Briala fought with us; they moved with a coordination that suggested they too had danced like this before and I hoped I could count it a sign that their alliance would hold. Curiously, I’d lost sight of Solas some while back, but remained aware of him in the whisper of frost that strangled enemies around me.

Explosive sounds like magic or gaatlok thundered through the trees, along with war cries and the clash of steel, but it all seemed muffled and distant. In time, we reached a place where the path narrowed and Gaspard had flashed a smile beneath beneath the mask of his helm as he hunkered down to hold the point. Now I was not tasked to fight, but to run— if I could not reach the Temple of Mythal before Corypheus, all would lost.

I found myself perfectly alone and content to be skirmishing in the woods as I’d been raised, encountering a few rogue archers and Templar horrors, but none that slowed my pace. Eventually, I skittered down the side of a rocky embankment and waded into a wide stream, pebbles beneath my feet smooth as glass from untold centuries of polishing.

I felt an odd ripple in the veil, as fine as Orlesian silk, like some gossamer thing that could be crumpled small within my fist. Instinctively, I reached out for it with my own magic, then pushed to slip like a needle through the folds. I exploded out on the other side, splashing beneath a ruined bridge that I’d spotted in the distance. A moment later, Solas came crashing through to join me, eyes wide.

“How did you—?”

His question was cut short by a flurry of arrows that sent us dodging back for cover. I bounced up a barrier, and whispered for Amalia while he brought up an ice wall to bottleneck the archway where we’d found ourselves. He stood close enough that his ice armor had begun creeping over my breastplate unbidden. I panted for breath, wide-eyed at the discovery myself.

“I just…did.”

“Stepping through the fade takes a unique combination of spatial awareness and intuition of the variations within the veil. That was remarkable.”

I smirked at the typically-Solas compliment as I tugged him to the shore, and when our feet were safely clear of the water I sent a current of lightning racing downstream to clear out the unsuspecting archers. Solas, meanwhile, laid ice mines to cover our backs.

“Should we wait for Cassandra?”

“We are here!”

Cassandra and Morrigan broke through the thick underbrush behind us, startling a flock of jewel colored birds into flight. The shemlen were bloodsoaked but unharmed, Morrigan’s magic shimmering around them. Cassandra adjusted her shield and charged through to the rocky alluvium beyond the bridge to join the Inquisition soldiers, and Amalia brought a hulking Templar along to guard her. For her part, Morrigan dissolved into a stinging swarm that dove into the fray, and I glimpsed sunlight bounding off daggers that could only have belonged to Cole.

That was all of us, then. Everyone else had remained to defend Skyhold, or to fortify the base camp with Briala and Gaspard.

I threw a static cage around a group of templars trying to flank us, letting a stray thread of the spell’s mana catch against Solas’ aura. He immediately changed the rhythm of his casting, sweeping his staff in an elegant arc to alter gravity within its bounds. It crushed the Templars together and I drew on his aura to bring ice into their midst just before Solas ripped a boulder up from the creek bed.

Our magics dipped in perfect synchronization, then popped up together in a bubble of focus. For one perfect moment, I could see every individual piece of Templar armor shattering into the air— the spray of blood and broken bones, hilts torn from blades paused in their somersaults, and shards of ice suspended like soap suds. Time had gone perfectly still, and Solas caught me up in his arms for just an instant, our mouths and manna rushing together in the sweetest, saddest kiss: a stolen goodbye before our final onslaught against Corypheus.

To anyone else, we’d be no more than a blur, but for a heartbeat we were unrushed and unbound. We’d never done anything so reckless, but there was no guarantee that either of us would survive and I surged against him. Secretly, I worried what would become of the Anchor once Corypheus lost control of the orb. I’d seen too many shattered scrying crystals, broken amulets of power, overcharged staves, and, thanks to Morrigan, fractured eluvians to pretend things ever ended well for magically enchanted vessels.

That I was a living thing did not improve my odds. Solas had been able to stabilize the Anchor before it killed me in Haven, but just barely. Could he save me again if Corypheus used the orb against me? I suspected that he shared my fear; our fight in the snow after Halamshiral had taught me exactly how Solas kissed his apologies.

We soon parted and the effect was dispelled, the world suddenly too fast and too bright. In the fallout it was clear that the battle was done, and I shouted for a scout bring Cullen to hold the point secure. When the order was given, I finally had the chance to look up at the Temple Gates and I swore softly to myself.

“By the Dread Wolf.”

Two monumental statues of Fen’Harel flanked the entrance, heads thrown back in an eternal howl. The statues were every bit as old as the ruins all around, as ancient as Arlathan, and I wondered if their presence set the example that every Dalish clan followed. Not that I had time to give it thought; we took off toward a broad staircase to the left, in turn flanked by the twin harts of Ghilan'nain, my clan’s own symbol.

This brought us to a terrace guarded by another pair of Dread Wolves lying in repose. Creators, he was everywhere. I shuddered to think that the temple predated the Great Betrayal, to a time when Mythal walked the earth and had no cause to distrust Fen’Harel. All the stories and legends of my childhood, all the deeply held and half-formed beliefs, the truth of it all was _here_ where we had no time to linger.

Solas had gone terribly quiet, no doubt mourning the chance to sleep and dream in such a place. He’d told me of the towering spires and glittering halls of Arlathan, so I knew it was not his first time to explore such an ancient ruin, but to be here in the flesh while all its secrets were locked behind the veil must be agony for a man so singularly fixated on the Fade. Sweet Sylaise, the things that man could do in the Fade.

“Voice ringing with fullness from both worlds, guiding me to the shining places. He calls himself Pride.”

Cole’s voice echoed through the stone corridor that led off to the inner sanctum, and I was deeply, impossibly grateful that his cryptic way with words had, for once, kept my distracted thoughts from being laid bare. Solas had long since dominated whatever focus I had; even in a place such as this my mind drifted to him.

I nicked a few vials of lyrium from a broken supply crate, slipping one to Morrigan and Solas before downing one myself.

“Are we ready?”

“I hear fighting ahead,” said Morrigan.

We sprinted the length of the shadowed corridor, and to my great surprise it didn’t open up to a room, but a world. Flocks of birds flying past, a tree the size of a mountain, a waterfall, a lake, an island: an entire paradise that had languished for millennia. I could speak of what the Creators had wrought in the abstract, but this had truly been their handiwork. It left me breathless and in awe, but then my heart came to a dead stop: Corypheus.

Along with him on the lower level, a handful of Templars, straggling Grey Wardens, and Samson facing down a dozen…Dalish elves defending the narrow bridge. Corypheus stepped onto the bridge and two enchanted stone dragons sang to life, ancient runes glowing and focusing energy that tore through the Elder One as he struggled to pass. There was a blinding white light and energy and magic washing over us all. Then, as magical vessels are wont to do, the statues exploaded to leave nothing in their wake but a ring of dead bodies thirty feet across.

Solas whispered something I couldn’t quite catch though I was sure of the sentiment: fuck.

Fearfully, we eased our way down the stairs. Surely, this could not be over. I scanned the broken bodies and gore for the orb, but saw nothing. Far across the bridge, Samson was urging his men through a monstrous doorway and he paused long enough to taunt me with a grin. I was torn away from his gaze by the sick tremor of magic behind me. I spun to find a Grey Warden kneeling in the carnage, limbs twisting and coughing blood.

“It cannot be!”

I’d have to give Morrigan the edge when it came to intuiting blood magic, because my mind was unwilling to grasp what I saw until the man threw back its head to vomit a fountain of blood from which the form of Corypheus began shaking and tearing its way into the world. For a second we were all poised to fight him there, but the cry of an archdemon crashing down through the trees changed our minds.

Cassandra grabbed me by the arm and shoved, sending me toward the bridge and running through the elven bodies that blocked our path. It was an all out sprint, but our lighter frames and armor put me and Solas in the lead. We tore through the main doors and he shouted at me to begin the work of closing them, knowing from their size it would be no quick task.

In a heartbeat Cassandra was at my side, throwing her weight into the door with mine, and I saw Cole and Morrigan join Solas. Finally we had the doors swinging on their hinges to slam shut, and we were all thrown flat on our backs by the force of the explosion on the other side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ughhhhhh, we're getting near the end, I'm dying.....buckle up for the Angst train, kids. It's coming. I really want to say thank you to everyone who's still reading along- this thing is so insanely, stupidly, unreasonably, horrifically long, and somehow you're all still here and I'm just in awe. Thank you thank you for all the sweet comments and kudos and encouragement.


	54. Fen'Harel, the Dread Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which I live the dream in which a Dalish Inquisitor has her own unique reactions in the Temple of Mythal, and make up my own codex poem. Because it would be Inquisition without a codex poem. Not to put too fine a point on it, but given the sheer amount of Fen'Harel lore, imagery, and banter tossed around, I have to believe the experience forces the Inquisitor to really look at her beliefs in him.
> 
> I can only imagine how powerfully sad it must have been for Solas. No wonder he sobers up so hard afterward. Ugh. These two.

The ivy fell from the stone in fistfuls, bit by bit revealing the flowing script below. At first blush it was perfect gibberish, but then I caught a familiar radical and the context put the rest in perspective. The characters were merely stylized, illuminated by superfluous strokes like the first letter of an Antivan fairy-tale.

However much I missed when Solas spoke too fast, and however I flailed for words aloud, reading comprehension was a matter of pride. To gather lore is the work of a Keeper, and there was no city in the Free Marches where I had not raided the bookshops for the language of my people. The more florid the prose, the patchier my vocabulary, but this poem was meant for the masses.

_Peace on the way of sorrow_  
 _pause not for lingering doubt_  
 _bare feet atone_  
 _pure hearts alone_  
 _whisper wisdom above a shout._  
 _Sweet sacrifice of duty_  
 _bound in breaking to Mythal_  
 _untold years_  
 _to gather the tears_  
 _of those drown in the well withal._

Solas spoke up behind me, “‘Atish’all vir abelasan,’ it means ‘enter the path of the well of sorrows.’”

“There is something about knowledge,” added Morrigan. “Respectful or pure…shiven, shivennen…Tis all I can translate.”

I glanced between the two, uncertain of their ruse. I knew full well that Solas could read it, and found it implausible that Morrigan could make the eluvian her life’s work without picking up far more than that. If anything, Solas remained silent so Morrigan would reveal her hand, and in turn her trustworthiness, but I felt deeply uncomfortable with treating the Temple of Mythal like The Game.

“Alright,” I said hesitantly. “Is this the part where I pretend to be illiterate because I’m Dalish, or are we going to talk about this?”

Morrigan’s look of astonishment and the way Solas shifted his eyes told me everything I needed to know; they hadn’t actually considered that I could read.

“Ah, I see.” I cleared my throat. “So, obviously, I’m missing something. This seems fairly straightforward, yet you’ve both turned into Dirthamen over it. If you have some particular insight, now would be the time.”

“She’s imagining how it would feel to strike you both with lightning,” said Cole in wonder.

When I turned sharply to glare, he shrugged in a way that only Varric could have taught him. “You said if we had insight we—”

“So I did. Ma serannas, sweet Cole.”

“T’would seem I have underestimated you, Inquisitor. Yet in so doing, my purpose was not to obscure the truth. I have merely grown accustomed to the solitude of my musing. Supplicants to Mythal would have first paid obeisance here.”

“It is where they paid fealty to the gods,” said Solas. “Only the reverent were permitted to touch this ground, and only in solemn contemplation.”

“Perform a ritual to appease elven gods? Long-dead or no, I don’t like it.”

"There’s no need for you to walk it, Cassandra.” I touched her lightly on the arm; better than anyone, I knew the foreboding that went with being forced into the service of a foreign god.

The scar on her cheek twitched in a half formed smile. She nodded, fingers flexing around the hilt of her sword, at peace with a job her Maker could not reproach. I hesitated on the stairs to see if Solas might join me, if only to participate in something he’d witnessed in the Fade, but it appeared I was alone on my path.

I’d stepped on one of the tiles in clearing out the ivy, but returning in worship had made it feel altogether new. I whispered a prayer to the All-Mother and took my first step. My life was hers already, there would be no sacrifice in bending to her will. If the Anchor broke me, then I broke to the service of a god. If not Mythal, then to one of her children. 

As I finished my petition, the shrine cried out in a chorus of light and sound that brought sudden clarity: the orb didn’t belong to Mythal. The sunlight and blue skies of her magic tasted nothing like the Anchor’s verdant forest. They were related in their own fashion, but distinct; ancient powers that spoke of gods who truly existed.

Though I’d always believed that, in my day-to-day life the gods functioned as allegorical figures. I could draw on their stories for guidance and pray for wisdom, but they did not intervene in my life or speak to me in the fade. They were gone, and gone felt as good as dead. Yet with Mythal’s magic on my skin, I could not help but know that she was real.

It left me with a sense of reverence I hadn’t felt since the night my vallaslin were completed, when three days of pain and meditation turned my focus so sharply inward that I hovered on the edge of the fade in waking. To feel like that once more, only minutes after blood and death and dragons? It made the whole world seem sharp and fresh.

Morrigan stood upright from where she’d been leaning against the bannister.

“Let us see what awaits,” she said.

We took the stairs, overgrown as they were, along a path littered with red templar corpses pincushioned by arrows. The fletching was unusual, but then again so would be the clan that dared to make their home in the Arbor Wilds. Whoever they were, they had my respect— to live within these temple walls surrounded by live magic outstripped the grey ruins of my childhood.

When the stairway divided, a dark blotch of red paint on the wall drew me left instead of right with the others. It was a sketch of elves within the belly of a beast, and coming close to examine it I noticed soft light through an archway down the corridor.

“Wait…”

I knew we did not have time to explore as we usually did, but I could not resist the mystery of an open door. I shouldered my staff and passed under the arch into a small, dark room. Through another open door I discovered a garden terrace as verdant as the Emerald Graves. Thick ivy crept up the stone walls, ferns fronds swayed in the breeze, and tall grass sprouted from between the ancient cobblestones.

A canopy of palms and sylvanwood put green above me, soft moss put it below, and between them both I found him lounging, Fen’Harel in repose. I stood transfixed, strung between dread and awe as Morrigan joined my side.

“Why would this be here?”

“Something wrong?” Cassandra asked, turning to the mage.

“It depicts the Dread Wolf, Fen’Harel,” she replied. “In elven tales, he tricks their gods into sealing themselves away in the Beyond for all time. Setting Fen’Harel in Mythal’s greatest sanctum is as blasphemous as painting Andraste naked in the Chantry.

“Some Chantries display statues of Andraste’s betrayer Maferath as part of the chant,” said Cassandra.

“It might fulfill a similar function,” she conceded. “A reminder of vigilance for the faithful.”

“For all your ‘knowledge,’ Lady Morrigan, you cannot resist giving legend the weight of history. The wise do not mistake one for the other.”

“Prey tell, what meaning does our elven ‘expert’ sense lurking behind this?”

“None we can discern by staring at it.”

I laughed. “Says the man who found Skyhold because he claims the world is full of wonders for those willing to look.”

“Reveal to this humble shemlen, Inquisitor, what keen observation you glean from the sight.”

I thought strongly at Cole, begging that he would not mention how quickly Morrigan always brought lightning to mind.

“My clan set statues of the Dread Wolf outside our camp, but they’re carved in fear. Ears back, teeth bared, hackles raised, posture upright. But there’s nothing dreadful here, look. His ears are quirked and curious, mouth closed, hackles down, tail curled.”

“What better facade for a being your people call the Trickster? The fact remains that he does not belong within this hallowed place.”

“You're missing my point— this was carved before the fall,” I said. “When he was still beloved.”

While she merely arched an eyebrow in consideration, the reality of it squeezed my heart to breaking. Our legends plainly state that he walked as one among the gods, yet I'd never imagined how convincing his illusion. I'd always pictured Fen'Harel as a baldfaced traitor, a wayward son the gods in their mercy were too softhearted to strike down. How much Greater the Betrayal to think the gods and The People once believed he loved them in return.

How many of Mythal's worshipers entered this very room to whisper _ar lath ma, Fen—._

I couldn’t even finish the thought. The magnitude of my blasphemy with Solas seemed truly obscene now that I stood within ruins wrought by The Wolf himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very closely related but something I was unable to put in the story: what do you suppose is on [the tablet](http://s122.photobucket.com/user/Starseeker13/media/fen_harel_symbol.jpg.html) leaning against Fen'Harel. A rune? His vallaslin? Alienage heraldry? I feel like this is a huge clue of some sort since Solas is all but begging us not to look at the statue.
> 
> Dear gods, how many chapters can I wring from the Temple before the Inevitable?


	55. Abelas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, you know, just meeting an ancient elf for the first time...

I found the temple beautiful and wild: magnificent colonnades of sculpted marble sprouting wheels of ruby fungus, intricate tile-work split by twisted roots, vaulted ceilings caved to gravity so that sunlight and ivy streamed through. Everywhere we went, Mythal's statue was crowned by a bird-nest and fleeced with cobwebs; in every room, Fen'Harel slept under a blanket of moss.

“Such staggering loss. To think—”

Solas trailed off, overwhelmed as we passed through the Hall of Shrines. Cassandra had compared it to the Grand Cathedral in Val Royeaux, but no mundane shemlen architecture could compare to what the elvhen had wrought with magic. It was glorious, but in truth I did not quite share the sense of sorrow it brought to Solas. He could appreciate its former glory from his travels in the fade, but I’d never known an elven temple that wasn’t already in ruins.

I grew up in such places, my clan wandering between the ruins that dotted the Minanater, so the birds and trees and dragonflies made the Temple feel more aneth'ara than Skyhold. I'd once considered that a point of elven pride, a heritage that flat-ears abandoned for their cities, but now I feared my wildness was merely Dalish. If I were thrown into Mythal's Temple at the height of its grandeur, it would have been as foreign as Halamshiral.

“I can hardly imagine this place apart from the forest.”

“Not entirely apart. In the Fade I have seen such structures, woven in concert with nature and design. Like roses trained upon a trellis.”

“It just sounds…sterile. Roses should ramble.”

“A figure of speech, vhenan.”

“I myself was raised rambling in the Wilds,” said Morrigan. “Yet, I have found great satisfaction in the civilization denied me in childhood.”

“Do you miss it, Lady Morrigan?” asked Solas, perhaps uncharacteristically cordial under threat of lightning. 

“My childhood or the Korcari Wilds? Suffice it to say that in either case I found my prospects much improved by the Blight."

I was glad enough for the conversation, because it was far better than considering Andruil gone mad, Fen’Harel rebelling against Mythal, or Falon’Din bringing death enough to fill an ocean of blood. Better than thinking about elvhen who lived like Orlesians, in sparkling palaces where nature was a thing to be tamed. It was none of it as I had expected, wrinkles in belief that would require much reflection to smooth.

In time, we passed through a narrow passage where the bricks had tumbled down in piles, then through an enormous trefoil door to a massive undercroft. The checkerboard tiling on the floor was gorgeous, but not enchanted. There was no shrine or altar, but the statue of many archers and well-tended braziers to light our way.

At this sign of life we shaped up our formation. Cole took point, lanky and languid in a place without a thousand hurting hearts to rile him. I could hear the rattle of Cassandra’s armor behind me, and the scrape of her boot as she turned a slow circle to guard our rear. Solas and Morrigan flanked me, together knitting a barrier around us all.

I sensed nothing unusual but for the hum of magic that ran through the entire hall, but as we approached the end of the chamber I heard the soft stretch of bowstrings. Fenedhis. How? At least four archers, if I could trust my ears to sort out shifting sounds, but if they'd drawn in perfect unison it could be four sets of archers instead. Shit.

Solas would have heard it too, and Cole would be aware of my own awareness, but for the sake of Cassandra and Morrigan, I stopped short to whisper, “We’re being watched.”

“Venavis,” came a gravely voice from the shadows, and for a split second I thought of Hawke’s Little Wolf. Following the sound, I looked up to see a hooded figure glowering at me from the balcony. Elven, to be sure, though unusually tall and broad shouldered.

“You are…unlike the others. You have the features of those who call themselves elvhen.”

The Anchor roared to life at his command, a feat only Corypheus and Solas had ever managed, and my pulse quickened to wonder which sort of mage he’d prove. The emerald light in my palm bounced up to dispel the shadows beneath his hood, revealing the vallaslin of Mythal, deep and green like my own. The sight could not have been more welcome.

“You bear the mark of magic, which is…familiar. How has this come to pass? What is your connection to those who first disturbed our slumber?”

There wasn’t a mage in Thedas who’d call the mark familiar, the fact from which the rest tumbled into place. Not slumber, not Dalish: Uthenera, Elvhen.

Oh.

My heart leapt. Cad'halash had not been their only refuge! Not all were lost to the fall. I was stunned into silence for a moment by the enormity of the revelation, a thousand half-formed hopes racing through my mind in an instant. This changed everything. Our ancestors yet lived!

With elvhen to guide us, The People would have a home, perhaps a nation in the Arbor Wilds, far from human concern. The eluvians could be restored, all of them. Briala could… suddenly so much more seemed at stake. He had to know were on the same side. 

I lifted my voice to a near-shout, lest it be lost in the distance between us. “Mythal enaste, hahren. They are my enemies, as well as yours.”

He relaxed a degree and his hood fell back just enough to reveal the smooth dome of his head. His skin was ashen like my own, eyes flashing gold. He’d been alive for millennia but looked no older than Solas. Creators, everything we knew about uthenera was true.

“I am called Abelas. We are sentinels, tasked with standing against those who trespass on sacred ground.”

Without servants attending his slumber to brush honeyed tea upon his lips, Abelas could only have survived by drawing on the energy of the fade itself. I couldn’t even begin to wrap my mind around what that said about his power. Our lore stated that only a rare few Elvhen achieved this perfection, and that supplicants would come to seek their wisdom in dreams.

That I was speaking to such a man was a wonder. But how long had he been apart from the world?

“Did you sleep in uthenera before Arlathan fell to Tevinter, or did you seek refuge here after the fall?”

“The shemlen did not destroy Arlathan,” he said, turning the world upside down. “We elvhen warred upon ourselves. By the time the doors to the sanctuary closed, our time was over. I know what you seek. Like all who have come before, you wish to drink from the vir’abelasan. It is not for you. It is not for any of you.”

“No,” I promised, still reeling. “I am here only to stop Corypheus.”

“It is meaningless.”

“He commands an army of blighted soldiers.”

“We will endure.”

It was beyond comprehension that I would presume to argue with an elvhen, but fresh from uthenera he would have no concept of the risk. Corypheus was unprecedented. The Breach was unprecedented. At a loss, I turned to Solas and dropped my voice low.

“Perhaps he’ll listen to you.”

“What shall I say, Inquisitor? Shall I sway him from a millennia of service by virtue of our shared blood?”

He had a fair point; barefaced he could no more appeal to Abelas than he could waltz into a Dalish camp and borrow a halla. I had walked the petitioner’s path in June’s shrine and wore his sign, perhaps I could appeal to Abelas as lethallin.

“Our people have lost everything. We need you. We could learn from you. But if Corypheus destroys this place, then all will be lost.”

“‘Our’ people? The ones we see in the forest, shadows wearing vallaslin? You are _not_ my people.”

No. No, no, no, no, no.

I’d heard this speech.

I knew that tone.

 _Our people?_ he’d said. _Who are—? Oh, you mean elves!_

Oh, gods.

No.

It might as well have been a magnet turning my head to look at Solas, because I did not want to see. But there he stood, too tall, too proud, altogether all too solas in the truest sense of the word. None like him, except... I killed the thought.

Solas was a powerful mage, but I'd seen him nearly outstripped by Venatori. I'd seen him dead in Redcliffe. If emma lath had a card that fucking big up his sleeve, he'd clean up after every battle the way he schooled Iron Bull in chess. He'd not have languished in prison for a year. Not that I had time to mull it over while Abelas continued to condemn me.

“You have invaded our sanctum as readily as the shemlen.”

I threw my left hand into the air and let the Anchor’s magic flare unchecked. It was a bluff to be sure, but if Abelas found the mark familiar then perhaps he respected its source.

“The god I worship compels me to stop him. I know this place is sacred, and I’ve respected it as best I can.”

“I believe you,” he said, and I didn't know which of us was more surprised. “If these others are enemies of yours, we will aid you in destroying them. When this is done, you shall be permitted to depart…and never return.”

Never. Our own ancestors would deny us, then. I caught my breath and consoled myself with the knowledge that opinions could be swayed. If I defeated Corypheus, if I fought with honor, if I proved myself worthy of Abelas then perhaps he would one day reconsider. The Inquisition once intended to kill me, and yet I'd become their leader. If I could achieve even a fraction of that success for The People...

Solas turned to me, his voice quiet and pleading. “This is our goal, is it not? There is no reason to fight these sentinels.” 

Morrigan took me by the arm. “Consider carefully. You must stop Corypheus, yes, but you may also need the well for your own.”

Yes, lightning would be nice. How savage did they each presume the Dalish if Solas felt the need to stay my hand while Morrigan thought it could be so easily forced? Had I ever led us into a battle unprovoked, had I ever claimed a prize for myself? I turned my back on them to face Abelas— at least his judgement was born of duty.

“I accept your offer.”

“You will be guided to those you seek. As for the vir’abelasan, it shall not be despoiled, even if I must destroy it myself.”

In a heartbeat, Morrigan shrugged off her human form and flew as a raven to overtake him. But Abelas was quicker still, already disappearing through a door beyond our reach. My barrier snapped up reflexively, anticipating arrows that never came. It was a tremendous gesture of good faith that we were not killed for her treachery, or perhaps it was the respect they paid to whatever god's power burned in my hand.

“She turned into a bird,” said Cole, breaking the silence.

The archers disappeared into the shadows even as a hooded mage emerged to lead us deeper into the temple. It had been untouched by the passing centuries, but felt like a nightmare— running through the gilded halls, not allowed to pause and wonder, not allowed to stop and pray, not allowed to study, not allowed to question, not allowed anything but glimpses, just glimpses and safe passage en route to the end of the world.

We found the foot of the Well of Sorrows beset by Red Templars, and throwing myself into battle was a relief. At last a problem I could understand, one that could be burned and choked and cut into manageable pieces. And when I finally reached Samson and saw him drenched in elvhen blood, I cast the rift and gave myself over to the fight. The dance was familiar, glyphs bright, staff spinning, and the tip of my blade brought to bear whenever he ventured too close.

Focused by my rage, each spell seemed to land with more impact than the one before. I saw nothing else, my world reduced to this single point. And then Cassandra was shouting my name, her gauntlet on my shoulder to haul me back, the bulk of her armor between us. Samson was on his knees and nearly done, why was she, why would she...?

“He’s still breathing, Inquisitor. We can take him back for judgement, he can answer—”

She was insane.

She'd called elven worship nonsense while the power of a god burned in my hand. I shrugged from her grasp with a mindblast to send her flying and called for Amalia before casting a static cage around us. I would not be stopped. Fuck shemlen justice. Fuck never taking a prize for myself. If the Inquisition owed me anything at all, it was this man's head.

Samson convulsed beneath the lightning that licked his armor, biting his own tongue as he seized from the voltage. I slammed the blade end of my staff through the gap at his pauldron with enough Force that it slipped through the joints and into the ground below. I didn't care to pull it out, I didn’t need a staff to be a danger.

He was unable to breathe from screaming, choking on his own blood, frantic from the violet smoke of a nightmare pouring from his eyes. And pain, oh, gods, I knew there was pain. I threw my arms wide to summon an ancient rune that seared the air before me, and shuddered as the energy barrage ripped itself from my mana. With such a clear and simple goal, every last fireball found its mark and the lightning of my cage responded in kind.

And when I screamed for the Dread Wolf to take him, it wasn't blasphemy but an earnest prayer. Samson had once been good. He'd been a friend to the mages in Kirkwall. He'd tried to stop Meredith when even Cullen had not. But all the goodness in the world didn't stop him from turning into the lapdog of a man who'd pretend to be god. He was a betrayer and to the Betrayer he belonged.

In a moment more my spells were gone, and so was Samson. I stepped barefoot on his breastplate to dislodge my staff, and when I pulled it free Amalia fed me with his death. For once I was proud to be the Dalish savage everyone seemed to think I was, because I wanted nothing to do with the civility that would spare a monster. Cassandra had her shield up, wary and concerned, but Cole slipped blithely through the bodies— happy for two hurts at an end.

Then I looked over my shoulder and saw Solas, long and lean and resting on his staff, simply watching, lust undisguised, the ghost of a smile on his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like, despite all the evidence that would out Solas as elvhen, for the time being Rial is simply so overwhelmed at the info dump that she's not quite ready to processes it with the threat of Corypheus so close at hand.
> 
> TME tells us that those in uthenera were sustained by a mixture of honey and herbs in water. Huge shout out to **Zedonkulouslybashful** for pointing out that such a mixture might be conversationally known as TEA. You know, the thing Solas hates? Yeah, I'd hate it too if it were force fed to me for centuries. XD
> 
> Question of the century: who is Morrigan's biological father?


	56. Elvhen Such As I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My only real gripe in all of Dragon Age Inquisition is that Solas will claim he begged Lavellan not to drink from the Well, but we were denied the privilege of seeing it. His anguish is so damn real in the rotunda, and I would have looooooooved for him to have put that on display at the Well.

Gods, I wanted that mouth.

For a moment I held his gaze, nearly burned by the heat in their stormy blue, then the sound of booted feet pounding the grass broke the moment. I whipped around to find Abelas sprinting across the green, racing a raven. The elvhen hit the paving stones on the other side of the terrace and cut right so hard the angles of his body seemed nearly parallel to the ground as he tore down the length of a reflecting pool.

Oh, gods. Morrigan would defile the Well of Sorrows.

I jumped from Samson’s corpse in pursuit, digging my toes into the grass to spring forward. Far ahead, enchanted stones threw themselves into a makeshift mountain that Abelas ascended with impossible speed, leaping and bounding like a halla. Creators, he was fast. I folded the veil as I’d done before, exploding through the fade to scramble up the stones behind him.

He came skidding to a halt at the top just as Morrigan crashed down to tumble back up in her own skin. Abelas turned to look at me, then back to Morrigan, falling into a defensive posture. Morrigan stood between me and the Well, wolf fangs jangling from her staff as she crossed her slender arms.

“You heard his parting words, Inquisitor. The elf seeks to destroy the Well of Sorrows.”

“As his duty demands,” I reminded, desperate for Abelas to know I would submit. “But it won’t to come to that. Corypheus needed Samson to use the Well. Without him, there’s no ‘vessel’ to claim it.”

“The moment we leave, he will send more forces to secure this place.”

“Then we take the fight to him. A few hours ago we didn’t even know the Well existed. We leave it.”

“And pray, how shall you forfend his rebirth? Corypheus will merely rise anew to continue the assault. Would that our resources were so limitless.”

“He didn’t reclaim the mages after Redcliffe or the Grey Wardens at Adamant. Corypheus will move on. That is his way.”

“The Well clearly offers power, Inquisitor. If that power can be turned against Corypheus, can you afford not to use it?”

“Do you even know what you ask?” Abelas cut in. “As each servant of Mythal reached the end of their years, they would pass their knowledge on…through this. All that we were. All that we knew. It would be lost forever.”

It was a repository. Like an amulet of power for knowledge, once used and forever gone. I understood the urge to protect such things, I’d always been loathe to break a charm. But there was nothing in Thedas that held power not meant for release; magic was not meant to lie stagnant but to flow, through lyrium, through our mana, through our staves, and back to the fade.

“I make no claim on the Well, hahren, but if I am a shadow as you say, then who will claim it? Everything your people were is already gone.”

“It is,” he conceded. “Better it be lost than bestowed upon the undeserving.”

My heart wrenched. I’d been raised the heir of Lavellan, First to a Keeper in a line unbroken since The Long Walk. My only purpose was to preserve and protect The People, to seek out our history and restore what was lost. Even as Inquisitor, I had no other goal. Yet standing before the only judge who could possibly matter, I proved unworthy.

Whatever came of Corypheus, my failure was complete.

“There are other places, friend. Other duties. Your people yet linger.”

The soft spoken sincerity in his voice came as the sweetest surprise. Solas, who ever and always struggled to reconcile himself to the elves, had at last joined our cause, daring Abelas to see us as his descendants, lingering and in need. There would be a place for him at Skyhold, whether we partook of the Well or not.

Abelas shifted from foot to foot, pacing back to regard Solas with curiosity. “Elvhen such as you?”

It wasn’t a question, but an accusation, and the nagging fear I’d so quickly smothered came screaming back to the fore. Solas regarded him coolly for just a moment, then ever so slightly inclined his head.

“Yes,” he said, drawing out the word. “Such as I.”

I forgot to breathe. Creators. Oh, gods. Solas. Of all the impossible things that might have come to mind I could only think of the raw lust on his face when I’d killed Samson. That thought became my anchor, the one thing I could say about the man that I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt. Everything else? Everything else was unraveling.

 _I joined the Inquisition to save the world,_ he’d said, _regardless of whom my people are._

When we fought after Halamshiral, I’d mocked his stories as second-hand memories of another man’s life, and he wept. I thought he'd been hiding a sordid past behind the tales of Arlathan, but he’d lived there. All those memories had been his.

 _I have watched dynasties fall and empires crumble,_ he’d said, and I’d only rolled my eyes. I thought he was being melodramatic. I thought he was deflecting, unwilling to trust me with his past. Creators. Oh, my gods he'd been locked in uthenera for millennia with Thedas unfolding before him in dreams. Perfection. That was the term my Keeper taught me, a state achieved only by those who could feed from the Fade itself...Perfection.

I’d been a waterlily, skimming along the surface and oblivious to the depths below. I'd been asking the wrong questions all along.

In a daze, I saw Cole fixated on the man called Sorrow, and Cassandra starring at Morrigan. The witch looked only at the Well, while Solas and Abelas remained locked eye to eye. That’s when I noticed that neither had blinked— in my shock, I’d unwittingly slipped into a bubble of Focus. Oh, June, give me focus. Let me bend unbreaking to the knowledge that threatened to overwhelm me. Let me hold that tension like a bow.

The bubble burst, time snapped back into place, and I swayed a moment against the speed of the world. All that mattered was protecting the Well from Corypheus. 

“You have shown respect to Mythal, and there is a righteous in you I cannot deny,” said Abelas, still fixed on Solas. Then he spun to me. “Is that your desire? To partake of the vir’abelasan as best you can, to fight your enemy?”

“Not without your permission.”

“One does not obtain permission. One obtains the right.”

The distinction spoke to a power dynamic that I couldn’t quite understand, but no matter. This was more than I'd ever hoped.

“The vir’abelasan may be too much for a _mortal_ to comprehend. Brave it if you must, but know you this: you shall be bound forever to the will of Mythal.”

“Bound?” said Morrigan. “To a goddess who no longer exists, if she ever did?”

“Bound, as we are bound. The choice is yours.”

“Is it possible for Mythal to return?” I had to ask, had to know.

“Anything is possible.”

“Elven legend states that Mythal was tricked by Fen’Harel and banished to the beyond,” said Morrigan.

“‘Elven’ legend is wrong. The Dread Wolf had nothing to do with her murder.”

“Murder? I-I said nothing—” 

“She was slain,” Abelas went on, “if a god truly can be. Betrayed by those who destroyed this temple.”

I was taken aback, but unmoved. Already the bards sang that I came close enough to saving the Empress that the assassin’s blade had pierced me too. That much was even true, but only because I fell against it so the blade would draw a wider path. I’d killed her as surely as Florianne, but only five people would ever know. In a thousand years, no one would suspect me, and I would not mock the wolf in thinking him less clever.

“If not Fen’Harel, then who?”

“Ask your god, shemlen.”

Having brought my own bluff and misbegotten heritage back to haunt me, Abelas abandoned the Well.

“There is a place for you, lethallin,” Solas called out. “If you seek it. Malas amelin ne halam, Abelas.”

While Solas clarified his invitation to Skyhold for Cassandra, I escaped to Morrigan’s side. I was afraid that once I looked him in the eye, Solas would know that I knew, and I couldn’t help but fear what would happen. I wanted to believe it changed nothing, but that seemed so naive. Not that it mattered matter now. We had to unlock the Well, and the eluvian in turn.

Tentatively, Morrigan and I reached out to test it with our mana. However still its waters, some force churned within. It seemed to have a gravity of its own; powerful, all consuming. I wanted nothing more than to feel it cool against my skin. I wanted to strip and bathe, to drink until I choked, to swim until I drown— With a tremendous force of will I tore my thoughts away and staggered back.

Creators.

“I did not expect the well to feel so…hungry.” Morrigan turned and smiled slyly.

“Let’s not be reckless. We are mortal, after all.” 

“Of those present, I alone have the training to make use of this. Let me drink, Inquisitor.”

“‘You alone’?” I nearly laughed at her audacity.

“I have studied the oldest lore. I have delved into mysteries of which you could only dream. Can you honestly tell me there is anyone better suited?”

“Shall I make a list?”

“You lead the Inquisition. This is not a risk you can take. I am willing to pay the price the Well demands, and I will use its knowledge in your service.”

“Or more likely, to your own ends,” Solas jumped in with unconcealed malice.

“What would you know of my ends, elf?”

“You are a glutton drooling at the sight of a feast,” he threw an accusatory finger in her face. “You cannot be trusted.”

Morrigan narrowed her eyes and turned to me. “So then you would drink, Inquisitor?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Him?” she laughed. “Because he is your _beloved_? Oh, you are a fool.”

I stilled a thousand angry retorts, because they would only give Solas away. Abelas knew the Well and its power better than anyone, and cautioned a mortal would not fare well. Though it shook me to the core to think it, he had a point. I was shemlen— a quick child who would die too soon. Sooner still if I did not survive Corypheus. The Well’s enansal belonged to The People, and Solas alone could preserve that knowledge for millennia. Oh, gods. Millennia. I bottled up the flood of realization that threatened to pour from that word.

“Solas…”

“No,” he snapped. “Do not ask me again.”

Surely he knew that I knew. The subtext might be lost on the humans, but he could not expect a Dalish to let such a word slip by.

“Ma halani. If Morrigan is right and it overwhelms me, how will we stop Corypheus?”

“She is right about one thing alone: we should take the power which lies in the well.”

A weight settled on my shoulders as he said the words. I thought of all the stories Varric told, of Anders bound to Justice, slowly giving in to madness until Justice was a wish gone wrong. 

“So many voices,” Cole whispered. “They would be in your head. Talking over you. You don’t want them.”

“Ma nuvenin,” I said to Solas anyway, because whatever my fear I could not let a sheml… a _human_ drink from the Well.

I wanted to say goodbye, not knowing if I would still be me when it was over, but Solas had turned cool and distant. While the others clustered together near the edge of the Well, Solas retreated to the ivy covered wall without a word. He wasn't looking at me, but through me, almost battle ready in his tension. And then I was grateful for the Well and my fear, because I'd rather drown there.

I stepped into the water, and its energy rolled up from the depths to greet me, washing my fears away. It wanted me, called to me like Amalia, promising that I’d never be alone. It felt as if I were floating somewhere far away, in the midst of a vast ocean with no shore. Its power was…immense would only be a thimble of the sum. I stood waist deep in it, not even lyrium felt like this. Oh, this was something else entirely.

Peace settled over me— how had I ever been afraid?

“Inquisitor!”

There was only the Well. Tendrils of magic arced up to caress my skin and in the smooth waters I saw my own reflection. June didn’t matter; I was beautiful and beloved by Mythal. The All-Mother would guide me through whatever was to come. I would bring her justice, and she would bring mine.

“Vhenan!”

Something far away bothered me, a buzz that only grew louder to spoil my worship. Perhaps there was some threat? I lifted my gaze from the water to see a man at the edge of the Well. So very, very far away. He seemed unhappy, somehow.

“Ma sa’lath, come back. Please. Come back to me.”

Of course, I would come back I said in smiling. I only had to drink, or drown, and either would be my privilege. Of course I would go back to...him. Of course. But not yet. Not now. First, Mythal. She would always be first. I couldn’t see the Anchor beneath the water and my left hand was as it had always been. I could be as I had always been, serving The People, not the Inquisition, not an unknown god, but Mythal.

“Vhenan, look at me. Look. Do not drink from the Well!”

“Inquisitor, listen to him,” came a far less alluring voice. “His fear is plain! It cannot be safe. Let me take the risk and I will be your sword. I will find the answers you seek. Come.”

I cupped my palms and scooped up the sacred water; my mouth had gone dry. I would drink, and drink, and drink until the awful thirst was quenched.

“Ar lath ma, vhenan. I am begging you. Rial!”

The voice broke with grief and at last caught my attention, so that I finally _saw_ him. Solas. Not so far away as I thought. A ward might as well have prevented him from touching the water, but he stood as close as he could, one hand outstretched, fingers splayed and desperate, reaching for me as if I were about to slip away. Was I going somewhere?

When our eyes met, his panic became a lifeline, my only connection to anything apart from the Well.

By sheer force of will I found the strength to move one foot ahead of the other while the whispering voices begged me to stay. And when I was at last close enough for him to reach me, hot hands on my skin were stronger than the Well. He hauled me from the water so fiercely that we both fell back to land in a tangle of limbs.

Solas was panting with fear, clutching my head so tightly against his chest that my world reduced to a single sound. The beating of a heart.

My heart within him.

Vhenan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longest note in the world ahoy! 
> 
> I think there’s more happening in the convo between Solas and Abelas than an elvhen fist-bump; I think they're acknowledging a difference in social standing. Solas says “your” people still linger to intentionally other Abelas, who in turn others Solas by asking “elvhen” such as you? In both cases, "your" and "you" point _away_ from the speaker. Solas points down, Abelas points up.
> 
> Solas is essentially saying, “Btw, sentinels still have a duty” and Abelas is like “ORLY, the gods are still kickin’?” then Solas practically busts out singing “The Boys Are Back In Town.” In parting, Solas essentially tells Abelas, “Yo, now that you’re out of a job, look me up. I’ll break your contract.”
> 
> Leading me to “Malas amelin ne halam,” too damn cryptic to literally be “hope you find a new name.” The writers freaking put back masked clues into the Well Whispers, so you better believe something significant is transpiring, and god bless who ever compiled the [elven language wiki](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Elven_language).
> 
> If you change the spacing of Solas’ quote, it becomes “Ma lasa melin ne halam.” This opens up a whole new world of meaning. _Ma lasa_ is “my grant,” and _ne halam_ is “your finish” or “you finish” depending on whether it’s a noun or a verb. That leaves _melin_. _Me_ is a prefix associated with time and we know _lin_ is “blood.” So I suspect _melin_ is “time of blood,” aka the bonds of servitude implied by vallaslin.
> 
> Thus I interpret _ma lasa melin ne halam_ to mean, “By my grant, your time of blood is concluded.” Literally, “[by] my grant, blood time you finish.” It’s not what Solas says to Lavellan because she’s being freed from unwitting slavery, while Abelas is being released from sacred duty.


	57. Ellasin Elah Vissan, Vissanall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Look, I'm sorry, okay. I'm just...I'm sorry.

Somewhere behind us, Morrigan had entered the Well of Sorrows. Solas pulled me up just in time for us to both be knocked back down by the tidal wave of magic and water that exploded out from its depths. I coughed, hands on knees, spitting water…but it was just water, it no longer sang Her song.

Solas looped his arm around my waist to help me up once more, and I leaned into him harder than strictly necessary. He was so real; I couldn’t forget the sound of his voice, pulling me from the depths… Together we turned to see the Well completely drained and one bedraggled human supine in its center.

“Morrigan!” I lurched forward, but Solas held me fast and bowed his head to my ear.

“She will be delirious,” he whispered, close enough that I could feel the shape of every word. “Be wary of whatever she says.”

I didn’t need reminding with the dreamy compulsion of the Well still vivid against my skin. We rushed to Morrigan’s side a moment after Cassandra and Cole reached her. She twitched and moaned in confusion, her head lolling and limp, and I knelt to clasp her neck, afraid she might choke.

The moment my fingertips met her skin, her eyes flew open and she’d scrambled to her feet, mumbling and touching her face as if it were not her own. Perhaps it wasn’t. She looked around in wonder, and I didn't know if I were jealous or relieved.

“Ellasin elah! Vissan, vissanall…”

I glanced at Solas but he only shook his head and frowned. Morrigan staggered back, turned a slow circle, and looked around, then she jammed her eyes shut, blinking to drive away whatever clouded her vision.

“I…am intact. There is much to sift through, but now we can—”

A sickly, charcoal mist began to rise up at our feet and I looked up to see Corypheus wreathed in smoke, _flying_ as if he were in the fade. All at once I remembered his touch on my wrist, his breath hot on my face, pain lancing from my shoulder, and his magic invading the Anchor.

He’d found us at last.

“The eluvian!” Morrigan shouted.

My world was set aflame with lyrium-blue and I crashed backwards into Solas, magic brighter than the Anchor seeping from every pore. I wheeled around to see the same electric energy alive in the eluvian; somehow, I had become the key. There was no time to think, only to run, and whether by an instinct born of my clan or the Inquisition, I knew I would have to go last.

Cassandra was loathe to do it, and Cole nearly so himself, but both followed after Morrigan and Solas disappeared. In the seconds before I jumped through, I saw a the figure of a woman in the water, rising up against Corypheus. I lingered, enthralled, my gods, was that Mythal?

I desperately wanted to stay for what would happen next, but if I were the key then the others would be trapped in the Crossroads. To my horror, when I pushed through the mirror, I tumbled home to Skyhold. We all stood stock-still, blinking, confused, and then the magnitude of the transition hit me. 

My panic was matched only by my sense of helplessness— Cullen, Gaspard, and Briala would think us dead or, worse still, would die if Corypheus opened a rift. Our forces could not hold out against an infinite supply of demons if I were not there to seal it. Should Gaspard believe that I had perished, would he consider his oath invalid and "lose" Briala in the Wilds? Before anyone even had a chance to move, I grabbed Solas by the arm.

“Find out what’s happening.”

“Vhenan, I…”

“Sleep. Dream. Find your friends, battle attracts the spirits, they'll know. I need to know what’s happening in the Wilds. Cole, can you help him? Cassandra, get Dorian. I didn’t even drink and the Well nearly overtook me, Morrigan will need another mage to ground her.”

With that I took off, there was time for nothing else. When I burst into the great hall, Varric knocked over a tankard of ale in surprise, then gave chase as I took the stairs to the rookery two at a time.

“Talk, talk!”

“I don’t know! We just…jumped through a gods damned eluvian. Fuck!”

Varric helped me scribble duplicate notes to our forces. _At Skyhold. All safe. My command, your decision: Cullen if battle, Gaspard if pursuit, Brialla of retreat._

It would have to be enough, every second might matter. Without knowing how Corypheus responded to our departure, I had no confidence to dictate their action. If Haven had proved anything at all, it was that Cullen knew how to make a stand; if need be, he could embed our troops and wait for my arrival. Yet if Corypheus fled, I would not deny Gaspard an opportunity to grind down the Red Templars if he wanted to give chase. Yet if escape were needed, neither could match Briala’s network of eluvians.

I could do nothing but throw Leliana’s ravens into the air and fret.

We shouldn’t have gone through the eluvian. Solas warned me that Morrigan would be incoherent, he warned me! Part of me wanted to ride hard for the Wilds, part of me feared Corypheus would lay siege against us at Skyhold. Were my troops being slaughtered while I wavered in indecision, were Gaspard’s?

I peered over the railing to see Cole sitting on the floor, braced against the couch where Solas had stretched out to enter the fade. That he’d chosen to lie down worried me; it indicated a longer trip than I anticipated. For a few hours in the Fade, sitting in meditation would be comfortable enough…but this?

Cole tipped his pale face up, his eyes masked by the strands of blond. When I turned back to Varric, Cole was crouched on the table between us, twisting a quill between his fingers.

“Once, it captured wind for wings to fly fast, flowing, floating, now it captures faded fires for words that fly instead.”

I rubbed his shoulder, hoping the words would fly fast enough. Never a fan of Cole’s more spirit-y moments, as he called them, Varric cleared his throat in frustration.

“C’mon, Boots. Let’s get you something to eat, or clean you up, or something.”

I let Varric talk me down to the tavern, if only because Cole loved nothing more than to eavesdrop on dinner, snatching up all the little memories every smell and taste could conjure. We brought Josephine along so that I could bring her up to speed as well, but nearly everyone else, Iron Bull, Blackwall, Vivienne, Leliana, and Sera, remained in the Wilds. After that, I rode out to the encampment around Skyhold to put our remaining forces on alert. I knew I owed the tale to Keeper Hawen too, but I didn't have the strength.

Skyhold felt strangely empty by the time I returned to the rotunda, and I found Solas still dreaming the Fade. He hadn’t even stripped off his armor, truly taking my plea for hurry to heart. He’d be sore and miserable when he woke, so I knelt down to unfasten his leather vambraces, then curled my fingers along the back of each thigh, each calf to get at the lacing of his greaves.

When I’d stacked the blood splattered armor against the wall, I undid the buckles of the wide chimir belt that covered most of his torso and parted the long robe he wore to gently slide the belt out from under him. I maneuvered to sit on the edge of the couch and carefully unclasped the dragonbone bevor around his neck, then set it on his desk.

I returned to sit beside him, forcing myself to believe it was a good sign that he had not yet returned. If he had discovered something dire, he would have surely awoken by now.

Yet it worried me to see lines of tension along his forehead, that little scar bunching against his furrowed brow. Bit by bit, I trickled a restorative into this mouth, wondering with morbid curiosity who must have attended his early…centuries in uthenera.

It was hard not to look at him anew, hard not to wonder how I came to capture an elvhen heart.

 _My time with you is precious,_ he’d said, and now I understood. Presuming I didn’t get him killed first, my light would burn out as quickly as a sunset while he’d live on for ages beyond counting. It was no wonder he was afraid of dying alone— it was inevitable.

I kissed the little scar and smoothed his forehead with my thumb.

I said I’d forgive him anything, but this wasn’t something to forgive; it wasn’t even something I could comprehend. There was an uncomfortable negative space in my mind as I realized the scope of what I did not know, and how quickly the rest had been shaken. 

A single day had proved a razor, cutting through the fabric of my belief. The Temple left what I knew of Arlathan in tatters and frayed my grasp of the gods. Abelas cut the ties I thought bound me to Elvhenan, pulling apart the very seams of what it meant to be Dalish, to be elven, until I was no more than a shemlen shadow. But in the tangled mess of my unraveling world, Solas was not a thread doubt could pull from my grasp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So when Morrigan wakes up from the Well, she says "Ellasin elah! Vissan, vissanall." The first thing I noticed about this phrase, aside from the fact that none of it lines up with any of the elven we know, so....I thought of how Serah Weekes is fond of anagrams and I decided to give it a go...Guess what I came up with? _His sins a slave, Lavellan slain._
> 
> Um....WTF? There are quite a few other options ("Alas, Lavellan slaves in his sin") but it made me wonder if the clan name Lavellan traces back to Arlathan because I don't think this dialogue is Inquisitor specific, which makes it true across the board. Like, maybe Lavellan was the first slave the Dread Wolf freed. Or a lieutenant in his rebellion. Or maybe a slave he owned that opened his eyes to the injustice. I dunno. But this can't be a coincidence.
> 
> So...why does the Inquisitor glow blue? I'm wondering if its Solas' magic in the Anchor activating the eluvian...


	58. The Angles of Her Face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Um. So. Happy Valentine's Day, I guess.

The sun at our back bled pale pink and gold across the snow, and the mountain air burned my cheeks. We hadn’t even paused for our armor and staves, which seemed a little reckless, but my curiosity was piqued. Solas was not one for clandestine excursions, so when he’d said _come with me, vhenan,_ I simply followed him to the stable and that was that.

We rode in comfortable silence for an hour, until the snow gave way to the grassy hills of Crestwood valley, where he turned south toward Caer Bronach. I’d come to think of it as the stodgiest fort in all of Ferelden, heavy and squat and brown. In short, the last place in Thedas that I would have expected my elvhen lover to bring me for a confession. I twisted to look up at Solas, but he only tightened his arms around me as he burrowed his nose behind my ear.

“The briefest of intermissions.”

Even without my Dalish armor, the scouts recognized me at a distance— none but the Inquisitor rode a wild hart. I could see them scrambling at our approach, so when the requisitions officer came running out to greet us, I waved her off to explain that I had not come on official business. We paused long enough to relinquish Shartan into the stablemaster’s care, and to swipe a few vials of elfroot to undo the ache of travel.

Solas took me by the hand as we ventured in the general direction of Glenmorgan on foot. We’d long since cleared the area of bandits and templars, but it felt unnatural to be out in the open and unarmed. Then again, maybe that was the point. How often had we wandered the woods surrounding Haven with nothing but our bows? Even unchanneled, we could together wield magic more lethal than any arrow.

“I miss hunting with you, Solas.”

“We shall hunt again.”

“My bow was lost in the avalanche that buried Haven.” 

“Then let us hunt under no power but our own.”

I rubbed my thumb along his index finger, pleased that however many millennia there were between us our thoughts could be so alike. We continued along the muddy path, all but washed out from Crestwood’s endless rain. In the fading light of the setting sun, the hillside seemed aglow. A little higher up the beauty turned ominous with the realization that it was only red lyrium.

“What will you do,” he asked, “with the power of the Anchor once Corypheus is dead?”

“We can’t go back to the way things were," I said, thinking of the Templars that kept every clan on the move. "I’ll try to help this world move forward.”

“You would risk everything you have in hope that the future is better? What if it isn’t? What if you wake up to find the future you shaped is worse than it was?”

I leaned against him for a pace, realizing that he had shared my heartache all along. While the memory of a dark future ate me from the inside out, Solas knew in truth what it felt like to wake and see the world gone wrong. He lived in Elvhenan when all the elves of Thedas were noble and magic came as easily as breathing, and there was no amulet that could take him back.

“I’ll take a breath, see where things went wrong, and try again.”

“Just like that?”

“It’s been just like that since Redcliffe, but I’m not arrogant enough to think it’s my decision alone. Whatever happens, we’ll do it together.”

“You think to share your power, to avoid the temptation to misuse it. A noble sentiment,” he said. “But, ultimately, a mistake.”

“Why?”

“Because while one selfless woman may walk away from the lure of power’s corruption, no group has ever done so.”

“I trust my friends.”

His voice turned unexpectedly sharp, “I know that mistake well enough to carve the angles of her face from memory.”

 _Her._ It was the closest he’d ever come to speaking directly of anyone from his past, and I briefly wondered if she was the human woman he’d once mentioned. Whoever she was, she’d left her mark. The bitterness in his voice was like nothing I’d heard in him before.

“You have not been what I expected, Inquisitor. You have impressed me. You must not less false modesty allow you to pass your power onto someone else. There are few regrets sharper than watching fools squander what you sacrificed to achieve.”

“You’re being grim and fatalistic in hope of getting me into bed, aren’t you?” I teased, not in a mood to be the Inquisitor.

“I _am_ grim and fatalistic. Getting you into bed is just an enjoyable side benefit.”

He pulled me closer as we walked beneath the moss-covered wings of Falon’Din’s Guide and through a narrow passage crowded with red lyrium. When it opened back up, we stood face to face with Fen’Harel— impassive but no less imposing for being carved of stone. I shuddered to think what once inspired the elvhen to flank a path with death and betrayal.

“Forgive my melancholy,” said Solas, ducking into the entrance of a cave. “Corypheus has cost us much. The Temple of Mythal did not deserve such a fate. The orb he carries, and its stolen power…that, at least, we may recover.”

“Whatever comes, I will have you by my side."

And so he was even as we walked through a dark and winding cave lit by the florescent glow of deep mushroom. Solas moved with the same sort of languid confidence he'd shown that night at the veilfire torch, but everything he once said now burned differently in my mind: _Faith is hard won, lethallin, worth of Pride._ He hadn't been talking about Mother Giselle at all; like Abelas, he'd once considered me a shadow, but that night I became his kin. Somehow, without even knowing it, I'd won him over bit by bit.

Deeper into the cavern, I recognized the spot where Dorian once dug up a bottle of Sip-Sip. Oh. I knew this place. Though I recalled little of that day aside from wyvern venom and gore, I discovered the grotto otherworldly at dusk— lush with greenery as dark as my vallaslin. The air hummed with magic as alive on my skin as the fine spray mist that rolled out from the waterfall.

Towering harts stood guard over the shallow pond, and I was secretly pleased to see Ghilan'nain’s creatures loom larger than both Falon’Din and Fen’Harel. Harts were associated with magic in clan Lavellan, a good omen that sparked a smile. Ghilan'nain alone among the gods had ever been mortal, a mage granted apotheosis by Andruil— by some accounts, her lover. I raised an eyebrow at Solas, trying not to over-think the symbolism.

“The veil is thin here,” he explained. “Can you feel it on your skin, tingling?”

I reached for him with my mana, finally understanding why he woke with such a sudden urge to take us from Skyhold before I could even begin to question him about the Arbor Wilds. Quiet conversations could be had anywhere, but dreaming in setheneran could carry a soul into the deepest reaches of the fade.

“I was trying to determine some way to show you what you mean to me.”

“I know what we mean to each other."

“Even so,” he smiled. “For now, the best gift I can offer is the truth. You are unique. In all of Thedas, I never expected to find someone who could draw my attention from the fade. You have become important to me, more important than I could have imagined.”

Bit by bit he loosened the knot of insecurity that had lodged itself in me the day before. It seemed like such a small thing to reciprocate, when centuries added a weight to his words that mine could never match. Yet I knew it wasn't a contest; I loved him with all that I had and could only trust that it was enough.

"As you are to me."

“Then what I must tell you: the truth. Your face,” he hesitated. “The vallaslin.”

“They honor the elven gods,” I said by rote, caught entirely off-guard by the unwelcome turn in our conversation.

“No.” His eyes darted along my vallaslin and he frowned. “They are slave markings, or at least, they were in the time of ancient Arlathan.”

"Why would say that?”

“Because it's true.”

“That's bullshit! It honors June, this is his symbol. You know that.”

“Yes, that’s right,” he said. “A noble would mark his slave to honor the god he worshipped. After Arlathan fell, the Dalish forgot.”

It drove the air from my lungs. A noble would mark…his slave. There were slaves in Arlathan? It was supposed to be our home. How had that knowledge ever been forgotten? The idea floated away, abstract, unreal, and I tried to tame the defensiveness that came over me.

“So this is, what? Just one more thing the Dalish got wrong?”

“I’m sorry.”

Slaves. My people lived in scattered clans so that no single disaster could ever take our heritage or freedom again; the sheer scale of our failure was incomprehensible. Our ancestors weren't lords and ladies, but something bought and sold. I thought of my brothers and sisters, my lethallin, my clan, all of us branded like cattle and I chocked back a sob. 

“We try to preserve our culture, and this is what we keep? Relics of a time when we were no better than Tevinter?”

“Don’t say that. For all they got wrong, the Dalish did one thing right. They made you.”

I pulled out of his arms, wavering between embarrassment and shame. I'd never felt that before, shame of my body, but now I felt filthy in his sight. How many times had I stood naked before him, mistaking pity for lust when his eyes slid along the lines of my vallaslin? I couldn’t even look at him, knowing he only saw ignorance smeared across my face.

“I didn’t tell you to hurt you,” he said, gathering me back to him. “If you like, I know a spell…I can remove the vallaslin.”

Everything went cold.

I touched my throat, and the power in my own blood cried out so that I could trace every line without looking. Vallaslin were the one exception, blood magic to bind a clan together. It was not a spell that could be undone, but a sylvanwood prayer: my promise to June that I would bend but not break in his service.

“I was fourteen, Solas. I don’t choose my vallaslin for the ancient elves, I chose them for myself. Even if what you’re saying is true, I don’t think I can let you just erase them.”

“I know,” he coddled. “I’m so sorry for causing you pain. It was selfish of me. I look at you, and I see what you truly are…And you deserve better than what those cruel marks represent.”

Selfish.

Something he wanted, then. For me to choose the truth of Arlathan over a fairy tale, to choose our future instead of the past. Hadn’t I just told him that I would move the world forward? Even so, I hesitated. There would be no going home if I let him, but at last I realized the truth: I would have no home without him.

We'd never spoken of a future together, the threat of Corypheus simply loomed too large, but it was nearly over. We might actually win. And when it was done, Solas would not abide to live among the Dalish, nor would I ever dream to confine him so. He was ancient wisdom and power and knowledge, and somehow mine; if we survived the coming battle, there was nothing I would not sacrifice to remain at his side.

When I found the courage to look up, I saw worry etched into every line of his face.

“Then cast your spell. Take away the vallaslin.”

The ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he inclined his head toward a patch of grass near the water’s edge.

“Sit.”

Hand in hand, we knelt together as if this would be a prayer of our own. Solas slowly lifted his hands, and cyan light like lyrium flared from his palms. I steeled myself for what would come; receiving my vallaslin brought the most extraordinary pain that I’d ever known, and I could not imagine the cost of their removal. My eyes fell shut, _suledin him enasal_. 

Even through closed lids, the brilliant light was inescapable. His magic lit my vallaslin, racing down my throat and breasts, across my hips and to my toes. I actually felt the blood dissolving, lifting itself from my skin, burning up, and dispelling like a flame in a cool breeze. It was swift, painless, clean. I was clean.

His hands brushed past my ears as he wound his fingers into my hair, tilting my head back to regard me anew.

“Ar lasa mala revas. You are free.”

The cadence of his voice made it sound like part of a ritual, and I looked at him in wonder. Was this how humans felt when they were married? Surrendering their lives to each other, leaving one home for another? He’d chosen me. Of all the women in all the ages he’d been alive, Solas had chosen me.

We rose to our feet and I felt so suddenly shy, naked in a way I’d never been before. I was someone that I’d never been before, no longer lingering in the ruins but forging ahead to build something of my own.

“You are so beautiful,” he said, and I believed him.

Our foreheads bumped together, and he nuzzled close until we fit like puzzle pieces. We held there for an eternity, simply breathing, knowing, before at last he swept me into a kiss. As ever and always, the coolness of his tongue over mine stole my breath away. I rose up on my tiptoes to meet him, curling my fingers around the smooth skin at his crown. I smiled when he palmed my ass to draw me closer until there was no space between us. It was so comfortingly familiar and yet entirely new because I was new, because he’d made me new. I clung to him through a wave of desire like I’d never known; something deeper than longing, more than _ar lath ma_ could ever say.

“Vhenan,” I whispered, sucking gently to draw the fullness of his lip between my teeth, to catch him, but Solas pulled back so suddenly I tasted blood.

“I am sorry,” he apologized suddenly, pulling away. “I distracted you from your duty.”

I laughed, uncertain of the joke in his oddly chosen words. “Wait. What?”

“It will never happen again.”

“Solas," I caught him by the fleece of his tunic to soothe whatever fear had suddenly gripped him.

“Please, vhenan.”

"Alright," I released him, still confused. “Just tell me. Whatever you need, we can find together.”

“No, we can’t. You’ll see. I’m sorry,” he spoke only madness. 

“Solas…don’t. Not— I’m not giving up on you.”

“You truly should,” his voice turned dark and dangerous, causing the night to swim around me. “You have a rare and marvelous spirit. In another world…”

“Why not this one?” I could barely breathe; when had things gone sidewise? What had I done so grave to ruin the world that we fought for together?

“I can’t,” he said, and the finality in his voice might as well have been a smite. “I’m sorry.”

Sorry? Sorry was a human word, a politeness I couldn't comprehend anymore than the sight of him walking away. I was paralyzed to stop him, rooted to the ground in my shock. He'd actually left. After all the times he'd turned away, and all the times I'd called him back, he was now well and truly gone. Of all the fights we'd ever had...this hadn't been a fight at all. I’d failed some test without ever knowing the rules, a failure so complete it didn't merit explanation.

The magnitude of it came crashing down like a physical blow and I fell knees and fists into the mud, short of breath.

Harellan.

It was me. It had always been me. I hadn’t even asked for proof, or time to think, I didn't ask anything at all. Not even a candlemark before he'd told me trust was a mistake, but I didn’t hear the warning, didn’t think it meant us. Solas once said I was worthy of pride, but I'd finally proved him wrong, showing him how quickly I'd betray it all: my pride, my people, my heritage, my god.

June.

Oh, my god, June.

In a panic, I tore open my tunic, pawing down my breastband and bending my neck to see. Nothing. There was nothing. I peeled off my breeches, twisting my leg to find only bare skin at my calf where it should have been green, bare skin at my hip where the branch once divided, emptiness where the leaves once sheltered my heart.

No, not my heart. Vhenan was gone.

Splashing into the water, I flailed for a rock, scrubbing as if it were only Lucie’s oily makeup and I might call the blood back where it belonged. Oh, god, June. I’d given up my own blood, my childhood wish, my rite of passage, all of Lavellan and every other clan. Whatever the Dalish got wrong, they were still my people, andaran’atishan. My breath felt like liquid, drowning me in my own skin.

I’d gambled with my birthright and lost. There would be no home for me when this was done; the Dalish wouldn’t have me, Solas wouldn’t have me, and I’d been a fool to think the Inquisition had ever done more than upgrade my cell. They weren't my family, they weren't my clan, they only wanted a body to throw at the hole in the sky. Whatever came, banal enasalin.

I crammed my fist against my mouth. I couldn’t fix it, couldn’t kill it, couldn't cut it into pieces small enough to understand. There was no spell to bring it back, no words to make him stay, no going back, and forward would be alone. Wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up.

The pressure in my chest mounted, and I staggered to the shore. Stupid, quick blooded child. How had you ever thought an elvhen would have you? With harts towering above, how had you ever forgotten the moral of the story? Ghilan'nain was led into the woods by the honeyed words of a hunter, blinded, bound, and left for dead. But no god would come to save me and Andruil had gone mad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For what it's worth, the unique convergence of statues for Falon'Din, Fen'Harel and Ghilan'nain is absolutely legit, so I do think all of that lore would be bounding around inside a Dalish Inquisitor's mind.
> 
> I wonder whose face Solas could carve from memory...I fear Andruil or Ghilan'nain.
> 
>  **Update:** if you'd like to read an alternate scene wherein Solas actually confesses, I wrote one: [Every Dalish Curse.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3552107/chapters/7821860)


	59. Setheneran

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you need a happy, peaceful day of Solas Snuggles, might I suggest you turn away now? Re-read chapter 45? Do anything other than scroll down, because...

Skyhold.

A fire roared in the hearth, but with the balcony doors flung open the air was biting and cold; it seemed I never could remember that doors were for closing. I slid from the silk sheets of my Orlesian bed, felt the soft pile of the ruby rug beneath my feet. I looked down at my thighs, ashen and bare.

Truly bare.

Oh. So this was me. Now. Wherever I went, bare like a child or a flat-ear, and I didn’t know which was worse.

I took the stairs, padding down marble to the second flight of rough wood below. A raven cried from somewhere within the tower as I threw open the door. Little gasps and hushed whispers filled the great hall, followed by dead silence as hands covered mouths and courtiers bowed in confusion, humans scrambling and stumbling back to burn with second hand shame— let them, I'd burned mine dry.

I finally stood free from every false thing: no costumes, no pretending, no gods, no Game, no history, no people, no future, no heart because mine was gone, and the one I’d been given gone cold. My life would be an endless succession of Now, tiny moments I could be sure of, and for Now I surely wanted a fight. I stormed through the crowd, watching them scatter from my path, to the place where Varric stood by the hearth, eyes carefully averted and beardless cheeks flushed red.

When I shoved open the door to the rotunda, I found him painting the dark, lean lines of Abelas, but disfigured and broken, one leg instead of two. Solas glanced over his shoulder with casual disinterest, his brush never pausing as he flicked the charcoal gray into the point of a sword.

“Inquisitor.”

“Since you didn’t have a chance to inspect the extent of your handiwork, hahren.”

I rested one hand on my naked hip and let myself be a thing for him to look at. For them all to look at, because I could feel the eyes above: Dorian and Fiona and Leliana and the awful tranquil, but to the void with them. I would not hide from this. I’d been small, and quiet, and hidden far too long.

“How many times have you cast that spell?” I screamed. “How many of us have you erased? Ar lath ma bellanaris, why did you do this to me?”

“I did nothing,” he said, returning to Sorrow’s stark silhouette. “The credit is yours.”

I’d let myself get so caught up in the fantasy of it that I hadn’t sensed the Desire Demon at my back until warm breasts pushed against it, and a slender hand slipped around my throat.

“Your vallaslin are not lost, da’len,” she purred, scraping a talon along lines I knew by heart. “I can call them back.”

My fingers moved to beckon lightning, and I waited a breath to let the power build.

“Your blood would sing for me,” she said, trailing lower. “You would sing for me.”

I brought down enough lightning to consume us both, channeling it through my body to hers. But when I jumped and wheeled around to face her… _it,_ the lithe figure only rose up on tiptoes, buoyed by my magic, electricity racing across its violet skin and horns thrown back to scream in ecstasy.

Solas stepped between us with a regal bow, one hand outstretched. “Come, before the band stops playing, dance with me.”

If it had worn any other skin, I would not have hesitated. I’d faced my share of demons in the fade, I’d faced the Nightmare itself, but, oh gods, that face. That pale spray of freckles and that shy smile.

“You’re not him.”

“Maybe I am,” said another Solas.

Suddenly I’d been shoved across the desk, face down in a book that swam with fucked up runes in a language I’d never known. There was a hot hand on my neck that felt like his, but it wasn’t. I closed my eyes and reached, but the thread I’d always followed seemed tangled and lost.

I didn’t wake up.

“Get out, demon.”

“Do you think I am the Iron Bull, playing little games and pretending at power? Do you think there is any word in Thedas that could stop me, flat-ear?”

The memory of a hand slid across my mouth, and the memory of a cock brushed between my thighs. With a roar, I called a mind blast to halt the flood of memories before they were poisoned in full, twisting onto my back beneath him. Then a rush of air brushed past and I felt a hot spray of blood on my face.

Solas slumped down onto my chest with an arrow through his eye. A slow trail of blood escaped the corner of his mouth, and the light in one grey blue eye went out. The fletching scraped my cheek as he slid to the floor, and I called fire before leaping from the desk to discover another Solas behind me, brightly polished bow in hand.

“Put aside your superstition, da’len. You're not a Dalish anymore.”

The flame in my palm sputtered and died, even as a rift split the air above me. I had no time to think before a fourth Solas grabbed my hand to close it. We stood side by side while a torrent of magic exploded from my palm; the strength in the demon’s grip as it held my hand in place, both of us shaking from the backlash.

Then it was done, and a perfect imitation of my sweet hahren that day turned toward me with a smile.

“It seems you hold the key to our salvation,” he said. “Well, it _seemed._ ”

Then his skin flushed red, lyrium sickness tainting his features until his eyes were aglow. “What if there was another way? What if there still is?”

In a blur of blue motion I tripped through the fade, sheltered against the wall by yet another Solas. The air was abuzz, and I felt him, truly. My Solas. But in the next instant, he flew tumbling across the room beneath an enormous black shadow, streamers of ruby light and blood oozing into the air.

“Solas!” I screamed, throwing up a barrier to protect him.

The magic thundering down was extraordinary, and for a second my barrier held up against the shadow, giving Solas time to catch my eye.

“I’ll miss fucking that slave mouth,” he said with a feral grin. 

The shock of it broke my barrier and the shadow tore out his throat, then went bounding across the room like a wolf. No, not a wolf. The Wolf. It left a trail of blood slicked prints across the stone, destroying one Solas after another: the archer, the hahren, the prisoner, the painter, all of them eaten up by my betrayal.

The Dalish subconscious is not a subtle thing, and the fade gave me a Wolf most Dreadful: horror and chaos and cruelty incarnate, a monster devouring every Solas I’d ever known, every Solas I hadn’t, leaving nothing but broken bodies and blood in his wake. Yet _my_ Solas was somewhere in the dream, his magic was so palpable, and oh, gods, if the demon were to kill him here…

“Solas, wake up!”

So many demons called out in his lilting voice, fragments of memories stolen and twisted, bodies pouring in from every door, leaning over the railing to shout, but only one of them was real, and I couldn’t find him. And while I failed, Fen’Harel tore them each apart, knowing nothing would torment me more than to watch Solas die over, and over, and over, and over, and over again, each body as broken and red as Redcliffe.

At last I saw him atop the scaffolding, by the blue column of Celene’s gown, above the fray, where of course my Solas would always be. I shouldered through the others, tearing myself free from familiar hands that grabbed to keep us apart. I reached the ladder and surged halfway up before another Solas wrapped his arms around me to drag me back down.

I tightened my fingers around the wrung, desperate not to lose hold, but when he bit the bare, blank skin of my thigh I lost my grip and fell. He grabbed me roughly by the ear and turned me up to face him.

“I didn’t always free my whores when I was through,” he said. “But you were unique. In all of Thedas.”

He went flying across the room, the back of him bloody and ragged and slashed, and the Wolf stood between us. I didn’t stop, didn’t think, just threw fire and watched in helpless horror as the flames slid over the Wolf’s coat to engulf the Solas on the other side.

His skin went black and blistery, peeling back to the bone, and I screamed, reaching desperately for my body outside the fade. When I didn't wake up, I lunged for the ladder, then there were strong hands hauling me up to safety. Solas pulled me away from the edge and against the wall, brushing blood off my cheek with his thumb.

“You can never go home, harellan,” he said. Not Solas. "But with my power, you need never be alone. Say you are mine.”

I froze; atop the scaffolding there was only one of him, but below there were hundreds and The Wolf.

In a single swipe, Fen'Harel toppled the scaffolding and we fell in a tumble of paints and shattered splinters. A giant paw sent me sliding across the bloody floor and I hit the wall just where the Sword of Mercy was painted. I looked up in time to see Solas hanging limply from the Wolf's mouth, blood dripping from its teeth. It shook him like a ragdoll and slung him to the ground. The weight of its six eyes fell on me as I staggered to my feet. Oh. Dear. Gods.

I woke up screaming, strange arms around me, holding me down in the real world.

I called lightning, scrambling back for my staff and finding nothing but dry bones. That would have to do, and my fingers closed around what could only have been a Qunari femur.

There were two shemlen and a dwarf bearing down, effortlessly dodging my poorly focused spells. I called for Amalia, but she’d abandoned me too. I needed more space, then. Time. I darted back and rolled for cover, came up sheathed in lightning, Anchor blazing. The closest shem had already danced from my static cage, and the other circled behind me, ghosting far too close for comfort.

“She doesn’t see us,” he said, his reedy voice close enough that I was able to land a bolt.

“No shit, kid,” came a rough voice in the shadows, and I pulled a rift in the veil somewhere near the sound. “Fuck!”

“Fuck yourself,” I spat.

The larger shemlen, a mage, drew closer and I realized I was completely naked. I knew this scenario, every elf knew this scenario, but he’d never have the fucking chance. I didn’t need a staff to call fire; it was a Keeper’s first spell.

“Ar tu na'din.”

“Rial, Rial, my love, look at me, look at me,” said the shem, gritting his teeth as fire rolled over his barrier.

His accent was familiar, though, and… I knew that face, somehow.

“Do you see me? Rial? It’s me, Dorian, l-lethallin.”

The Anchor sputtered in my palm, and the lingering trace of the fade fell away. The man dropped his staff to hold up both hands, a smile forced upon his lips, but dashing none the less.

“Dorian?”

I swayed and he was on me in an instant, arms circling and scooping me off my feet.

“This is my first proper swooning with a lady, I do hope I’m getting it right.”

“Dorian! Cole, I hit Cole.”

“There, there, love. I’ve got you. You’re alright, Cole’s alright.”

“I’m alright.”

“See? Cole’s alright. I’ve got you.”

“Varric!” I twisted, trying to find him.

He emerged from the base of a statue, Bianca at his back, never drawn.

“Easy, Boots. You’ll have to try a lot harder than that if you’re sick of my stories.”

I blinked, the sun was bright but not above us, nearly evening? Crestwood. I was in Crestwood. I’d slipped into the fade where the veil was thin, hadn’t set any wards. How long had I been lost in a nightmare?

I thrashed, trying to find my feet, to stand, to run, and Dorian let me go. I stumbled back, still in a panic, splashing into the pond and falling into cold arms and colder hands as Cole kept me from sliding under. The water burned my skin, which had been completely abraded, gouged along the lines I’d lost. I jammed my eyes shut, reeling.

“How long, what—?”

“You're asking me? All I know is that Chuckles came slinking back to Skyhold without you this morning, and the kid was in a panic. So I grabbed your favorite shemlen and we hit the road. What in Andraste’s—?" Varric was looking at my face, brows furrowed.

He knew the Dalish. He knew what I'd done. Everything from the night before came rushing back, and oh, gods, it was so much worse. I turned away from them and retched, but I had nothing to give. Everything was all already gone. Cole's hands were on my back, gentle where there the skin was whole.

“Bare, barren, blank, she thought clean slates meant new beginnings, but it was the end.”

Then I was dimly aware of being pulled from the water, the weight of something warm around my shoulders, and the smell of Varric’s leather duster as I was brought to shore. Dorian sat beside me in the marshy grass, heedless of the mud. One hand hovered over mine for a moment, then closed around it tightly. He wasn't much of a healer, but he lent enough mana to set the worst of the scrapes and scratches closing.

"Rial," Dorian said very slowly. "Did Solas do this to you?"

I swallowed, knowing my response would someday be in Varric's book. They would be the words that told the Dalish what I'd done, as surely as his words once informed the extent of Merrill's crime. He'd painted his Daisy as kindly as he could, but at the end of the chapter she still held the knife. But for all that I hated her, for abandoning her clan, for dealing with demons, for consigning herself to an alienage, for killing her Keeper, what I hated most about Merrill was that she always found a way to shift the blame. My mouth went dry.

"No," I told him. "I did this to myself."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter had to happen, because I need Solas to know just exactly what he's unleashed here. I figure that, falling asleep in a place where the veil is thin while experiencing the greatest heartbreak/culture shock you've ever known is a really, really bad mix for a mage in a world where demons haunt their dreams.
> 
> If you could use a smile, check out this amazingly adorable sketch of [Rial and Solas](http://deedylovescake.tumblr.com/post/110988007274/heeeey-fandom-how-about-that-latest-chapter-of#tumblr_notes) from Deedy Loves Cake. The squee levels of cuteness nearly killed me.


	60. Three Trout Farm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tiniest interlude, at camp before returning to Skyhold.

I woke from another nightmare unafraid of the weight on my chest, unafraid of the shadow blocking the moon, unafraid of a razor edge catching its light. How could I fear a silhouette against the night sky with a halo made of stars around his head?

“You’re so much louder,” he marveled. 

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“Hiding won’t heal the hurt.”

“I know.”

Fingers feathered across my forehead as he wound my hair around his fist. A sharp pull and the glint of silverite told me that it had been done, and once again I fell in awe of a little spirit who always knew just where to slip the knife. He seemed to fade away then reappear, stretched out in the grass beside me.

He smelled mossy and clean, like he'd bathed in the Minanter, like he'd slept in the woods, like my little brother.

I curled up against his back, fingers tight around his arm, at last unafraid of falling back into the Fade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just wanted to thank everyone for the overwhelming response on the last chapter, i was blown away to have such kind words and encouragement even after twisting the knife. Now, if only I could get Cole to come cut my bangs....


	61. A Selfish Mistake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part of me wanted to consider the lack of companion reactions to the break-up an indicator as to how isolated the Inquisitor must feel, but fuck that. I needed Angry Varric in my life.

With Varric’s leather duster cinched tightly around my waist, I took the stairs to Skyhold with my head hung low, hair falling forward like a curtain to shield me. I was barefaced and embarrassed of a face I’d never seen, keenly aware that no one would ever look me in the eye again without wondering: what has she done?

 _I see what you truly are,_ he’d said. Why had that not been enough, why did I feel compelled to prove myself with a grand gesture? I should have questioned, I should have demanded proof, I should have fought for my own skin. All I could think of on our journey home was the disappointment in his voice when Solas said he’d distracted me from my duty. If I’d only taken a moment to breathe, to think…

We found the great hall nearly empty but for a few dwarven craftsmen, and though I expected Cullen to appear at any moment, I felt oddly grateful for at least another day before everyone would start trickling back from the Arbor Wilds. Even the thought of convening the War Council triggered a fresh wave of panic. I hadn’t been able to look at anyone but Cole, because he'd always seen right through me and his compassion was the only sort I would trust.

Just as I reached the soft carpeting at the dais, the sound of a door being kicked in brought it to my sudden attention that Varric had slipped off somewhere along the way.

“You fucking piece of nug-humping shit—”

Before instinct could even spin me around at the gruff voice that echoed through the rafters, Dorian had draped an arm around my shoulders to forge ahead.

“Did you hear something? I didn’t. What’s this? The door to your quarters? Yes, well, then up we go.”

He all but shoved me through, and when I finally wheeled around he’d already leaned up against the door as casual as you please. I stared resolutely at the row of buckles down the calf of his boot.

“No," he hummed. "I think not.”

“No? You don’t even know what happened. This,” I gestured vaguely at myself, “has nothing to do with Solas, so whatever Varric’s—”

Even through the door, the magnitude of the crash could only have been an overturned desk.

“Then I suppose whatever’s happening out there has nothing to do with you either. You’re quite the egomaniac, aren’t you?”

I folded up the veil and stepped through, catching my footing by the hearth just in time to hear Solas say, “I understand your anger. I am furious with myself as well. But for now, we must focus on what matters.”

“What matters? Ha! She’s the only one of us that matters, how'd you put it, the key to our salvation? And you dragged her out to a wyvern pit, cast some weird ass spell, then left her unarmed and alone while the insane, darkspawn magister obsessed with killing her is still on the loose. Who’s side are you even on?”

“Whatever you are trying to imply, Master Teth—”

“I’m not implying anything, Chuckles, I’m spelling it out for you. That girl bounced back from a showdown with Corypheus that leveled a mountain, but after whatever the fuck you did out there she won’t even look me in the eye.”

I flinched back, finding Dorian warm and solid just behind me, the both of us eavesdropping in a sort of rapt awe.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” said Varric after a time.

“What you think of me, Child of the Stone, is of little concern. I am here only to—”

“Play god with my friends? Cole was too human, so you made him a spirit. Boots was too Dalish, so you took her tattoos. If you could wipe the sunshine off my face and bury me in the Deep Roads, you’d do that too. Taking the stuff that matters and pissing it away is your full time job.”

Solas had become impossibly quiet, drawing in on himself in a way that made me more than a little nervous that he was about to launch into a detailed account of exactly who pissed away what, so I left the safety of Dorian's shadow to enter the war zone of the rotunda. The room was a disaster, the desk overturned, hot candle wax and plaster spilled across the rug, papers scattered everywhere, and hoarfrost ghosting all along the curving walls.

“Varric.”

He never took his eyes off Solas, just tugged once at the hem of each glove before letting out the sort of disgusted huff I’d come to expect from Cassandra. Every inch the cocky rogue, Varric walked out of the room like he owned the place, brushing his shoulder against my arm on the way out.

“Nice jacket.”

Once he’d gone, an icy chill remained in the air long after the frost receded. Solas looked at me, eyes darting to take in the ragged fringe of hair that now fell over my brow, the dried blood under my fingernails, the many scrapes and scratches that Dorian hadn’t been able to heal, the mud caked all over. I had taken neither a restorative nor a bath, unwilling to part with the scars and the muck that hid the unbearable bareness below.

“Inquisitor,” he said it softly, like a question.

He’d stolen in to spy on my nightmare, but evidently hadn’t guessed how far into the real world it extended. I didn’t even have the energy to summon shame, because after so many demons wearing his face only to kill it, I could not stop drinking in the sight of him real and alive.

For a moment I thought he was still my Solas, and for a moment perhaps he was. I’d kissed those lips only a day before, and only a day before they’d formed the word _vhenan._ From there I was only one day removed from when the strength of his love alone had pulled me from the will of Mythal herself, when he’d held me so tightly I thought I would burst. Surely, surely, surely he would forgive me.

But my arrogance brought me one step too close, and he rose up to his full height, clasping his hands behind his back and lifting his chin as he’d so often done in Haven. I bit my lip and bowed my head, unable to reconcile the sight of hahren to the man who'd become ma sa'lath.

“Emma ir abelas.”

“As am I.”

I winced. “Yesterday you asked what I’d do if I woke up and found the future worse than what it was. I woke up, Solas. It's worse. So here I am, taking a deep breath, looking around to see where things went wrong, and asking you to let me try again.”

“We should not have tried at all.”

“Because I’m shemlen?”

Something unreadable flashed across his features, gone in an instant. “Because I made a selfish mistake. Because it hurt you. Because you deserve better. Pick any reason.”

“Y…” My mouth forgot the shape of words, and I had to start over. “You think I’m a mistake?”

“You deserve better,” he repeated. “The blame is mine, not yours. It was irresponsible and selfish, let that be enough.”

“It’s not enough. I don’t understand. What does that even mean?”

“The answer would only lead to more questions, an emotional entanglement that would benefit neither of us.”

Irresponsible. Entanglement. The coolness of his tone stunned me, and I thought of something he’d once said about spirits in the fade holding no more allure than brightly colored fruit. I'd discounted that once, thinking my hahren above temptation, but beneath that veneer of self control I'd found a man of insatiable appetites. Had I simply worn him down? Had he only wanted a taste?

“Then tell me I was just some casual dalliance,” I demanded, but I already knew the answer.

Of course I was. Stacked up to however many millennia he'd been alive, a few months might as well have been a one night stand. _It would be kinder in the long run..._

“I’m sorry,” he said after a long silence. “Harden your heart to a cutting edge and put that pain to good use against Corypheus.”

I left without another word, what more was there more to say? Vhenan was already hard and wicked sharp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the angry version of their break-up, Lavellan says "tell me I was just some casual dalliance so I can call you a cold hearted son of a bitch and move on," and Solas gives the douchiest answer of all time, "I'm sorry." It's not a yes or a no, leaving her stuck to wonder if he's sorry that she was a dalliance, or sorry he can't say that, and, just ugh. Solas. He's like only 75% committed to being a martyr. 
> 
> For the curious, [Stay or Leave](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=myO_gg2he7Y) is my number one Solas break-up song. The lyrics are freakishly on-point for Rial in particular. "Wake up naked...making plans to change the world, while the world was changing us." Ow.


	62. Clan Harellan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This day just won't stop. We'll get through, don't worry. And when we do, Sera can cheer us up! :/ Oh, dear.

Dorian found me considerably less resistant to being swept up to my quarters the second time around. I simply didn’t have the wherewithal to choose my own steps once the momentum that carried me from the rotunda was spent.

“That was dreadful,” he said softly, and I couldn’t argue.

There was a certain horror in knowing that he’d heard, because knowing made it real. Not some misunderstanding, not some simple quarrel, not a decision that Solas would reconsider if I could only say the right word. It was the _now_ I thought I’d vanquished, the abandonment he’d promised from before the start.

Some desperate, fucked up part of me kept circling around the words _selfish mistake,_ because at least that meant he’d actually wanted me. Once. And that, for a time, I’d known the love of an elvhen, found some piece of Arlathan alive and whole. But the knife cut both ways, and knowing a man like Solas would count me among his mistakes was a blazing scar across whatever happiness I'd found.

I stood numbly in the center of my room, listening to the distant thunder of rainwater pipes as Dorian filled up the oversized tub. A wave of steam rolled from the small chamber behind my bed to tell me he'd already runed the ceramic, and in a minute more the scent of elfroot and amirta announced he’d doctored the bath.

“I know you’re not keen on this sort of thing,” he tut-tutted, “but we're fresh out of babbling mountain streams.”

“Dorian.”

“I’m off to collect an impossible amount of wine from the cellar.”

“Dorian.”

“Now. When you’ve had a nice soak, we are going to drink ourselves into oblivion, and talk or not talk about. However you like.”

He stepped out of the lavatory and hustled me inside, but I wedged my knee between the door and the frame before he had time to close it. 

“No brandy.”’

“No brandy!”

I managed a smile for him, false creases at the corner of my eyes, until the soft click of the latch cut my strings. I slid to the floor and curled up in a ball. A mistake. Irresponsible. Of benefit to neither of us. Creators, fuck. Solas wasn't the first man to leave me, but certainly the first determined to see me burn to ash in his wake. It was beyond understanding.

“I don’t hear any elven splashing.”

“Fuck you, shemlen!”

“What was that, anger? Directed at another person? Splendid! That's almost progress.”

I shucked off Varric’s duster and kicked the water as I climbed into the tub, trusting the slosh loud enough for Dorian to take his leave. Almost instantly the water turned cloudy and gray as the dried mud sloughed off. For once I found a perverse satisfaction in the human custom of soaking in one’s own filth. How entirely appropriate.

Beneath the mud and rapidly healing scrapes, I discovered the skin of a child. Young and soft, too weak to commit to her clan. With sick fascination, I began noticing freckles and scars that I’d never seen, marks that might have defined another person but surely not me. This was not my body.

Without an emerald prayer to June written across my skin, the canvas covering my bones seemed ashen and dull. So very, very dull. Unconsecrated, unadorned, unvarnished, but it wasn’t just me— when I stood dripping wet to survey the bedroom, the luster seemed stripped off the whole world.

Afternoon sunlight streamed in through the windows, harshly illuminating the flaws in Hawen’s stained glass, cobwebs in the rafters, and dusty spaces in my poorly stocked bookshelf. The winter sky was bleak, and the mountains lifeless. Skyhold didn’t feel big, it felt hollow. I was so far from the forests and rivers and warmth of the Free Marches, so far from any place that felt like home. 

I pulled the coverlet off the bed, finding a towel or a robe seemed all too human a chore, and made it my cocoon by the fire that Dorian had sparked in the hearth. I almost napped in a sort of restless fugue, and didn't notice his return until a tumbler of crimson wine appeared in my hand. For the better part of an hour, there was no exchange between us aside from my empty glass perpetually demanding _more._

By my count, we were two bottles deep before I could overcome the foreboding sense that Solas was one of those Things of Which We Would Not Speak.

“Said that vallaslin started as slave markings,” I finally managed.

“Another gem from the fade, I take it?”

“Where else?” I deflected, suddenly realizing how he'd always done it, answering my questions with questions until I forgot that I'd asked anything at all.

“That's not a tale we hear told of Arlathan.” 

“Do you know what that means?”

"All too well, I’m afraid,” said the magister's son.

“Not just that. S’awful to think, but means that all the flat-ears crammed in all the fucking alienages— they were the masters. And all their slaves ran out to hide in the woods. Just disappearing like...”

Now I knew what Abelas meant by _shadows_ , and couldn’t choke out another word against the ugly rush of heartache. Without hesitation, Dorian joined me on the floor and scooped me up into his arms while I fisted up a handful of his jerkin to wring out my grief.

“That’s a terrible thing to spring on someone unawares.”

“It means Solas…and Sera are…and I’m just,” but I couldn’t bear anymore of it.

“Oh, my friend,” was all he said.

There’s no telling how long it went on like that; I hadn’t _bawled_ since before my vallaslin, and oh, how fitting it was that I was a child once more without them. They were just facts. Pieces of history, but they utterly dispelled me. I didn’t have any hope to contain the sobs that left me hiccuping and breathless, but Dorian never tried to shush me. He just whispered quiet things in Tevene, soothing words I didn’t have to understand.

“We are a funny pair, you and I,” he said after a time. “On either side of a legacy that stains everything we hold dear.”

I felt a terrible, terrible darkness, and for a moment a flash of wicked vengeance ran through me. The elvhen nobles who’d branded my ancestors were in turn the barefaced slaves of Tevinter. Then I was deeply ashamed to recall the regal features of Hawke’s Little Wolf, branded with lyrium instead of blood. No one deserved that. 

No one.

“Do magisters still bind their slaves? With blood magic, runes.”

“Ah, no. Not publicly, at any rate,” he said softly. “Is that what—”

“Written in my own blood,” I whispered, breaking the taboo; I was already harellan, it didn’t seem to matter.

Dorian nudged my tumbler closer when he saw my outstretched fingers wouldn’t reach. I drank, glad for the sharp acidity that cut through everything, and the oddly familiar smell of home…leather, and ripe fruit, creaky old wood, and straw. I pushed my tongue against the roof of my mouth, so deeply unaccustomed to talking about Solas out loud that I could hardly find the words.

“I just. The shock of it. When he told me. I felt filthy, like I'd rolled in ichor, and then he said he knew a spell.” I crammed my fists against my eyelids, trying to forget that sweet smile when I told him to cast. “I was just. It’s. It’s trouble for Dalish outside our clans, we stand out. Fights find us ‘cos we’re the only elves'll fight back, and the whole of Thedas knows it. I thought the spell meant, fuck, Cole already said it. New beginnings.”

So, so stupid. I should have known, should have seen that his secret would change everything. That before had only been a sort of pretend. While I deliberated, Dorian rocked us forward to snap up the wine bottle from the desk; my tumbler had a way of always being empty.

“He cast and that was it. Just said we couldn’t be together anymore, said, he said maybe in another world.”

I was lost after that, more hopeless, helpless sobs that couldn’t be held back. It felt like my fault before, but saying it out loud made it sound insane. Like he was someone else and not my Solas, like it was some terrible trick, because when had he ever been spiteful? Except to Vivienne. Except to Blackwall. Except to the Wardens, and the Templars, and the Circle, and the elves. Except to any and everyone he thought beneath him. I'd walked right into it, hadn't I? Assuming that we were alike when I knew that we were not. 

“I'll never go home again, Dorian. Not now. Not barefaced.”

“Surely that’s not so. After all that you’ve done for your people?”

I shook my head. “This spell. No one knows it. No one’s ever removed vallaslin before. Ever. It will be an infamous distinction.”

Perhaps the understatement of the Dragon Age, making me First among a clan Harellan, kin to none but Fen’Harel. At least gods damned Merrill Alerion Sabrae would ever and always have her vallaslin. It was only now dawning on me what an obscenely unique sort of traitor I'd become. Dorian couldn't have anticipated it, the fresh wave of inconsolable bawling. As I curled up small in his arms, it was not lost on me that in the new world I'd made for myself, my only comfort came from a noble Tevinter shemlen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yet another massive shout out to [Deedy Loves Cake](http://deedylovescake.tumblr.com/post/111679104469/you-think-im-a-mistake-haha-fuck-why-did-i), who brought Rial to life in her barefaced infamy, complete with her jagged new haircut, Varric's duster, muddy legs, and the world's most abysmally deadpan expression. I'm just totally blown away, lady, this is absolutely 100% how I pictured her. xoxox


	63. All Those Faces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's the thing: I really, really like Sera as a character, but damn, she's brutal to a Dalish Inquisitor after the Temple of Mythal (demons??? where???) and absolutely spitting venom after Inky opens up about her vallaslin. Sera'd always been "my" cranky little sister, but the callousness of those two exchanges really opened my eyes to the (self?) hatred she harbors for elves.

I don’t remember dreaming, but I suspected that I did. I woke hunched under a blanket by the hearth to find a kettle of tea on the fire, a warm mug in my hands, and a thick slice of buttered bread balanced on top— the middle of a scene with no beginning. The very thought would have once sent me into a panic, but if I’d asked to forget something that wasn’t Crestwood then gods, I must have needed to forget.

After finishing my little breakfast, I dressed and steeled myself to slip back into the Inquisitor's skin; I even put on her boots. The actual world was ending, not simply my own, and I needed the reminder. It was unconscionable that half our forces were still out in the field and I hadn’t sent another raven, or even asked if one had come to us in return.

Downstairs, the great hall stood empty, but I knew before opening the door that Josephine would be sitting behind her desk as always. She glanced up briefly as I crossed the rug by the fire.

“Inquisitor Lavellan, I— oh!”

She broke off in shock, mouth open, eyes wide, brows knit and staring. That very reaction was the thing that once made every trip to Wycome a joy, shocked humans aghast at what they found written across my face. But I’d never seen someone shocked at what they didn’t find, and it sent a cold pit of dread into the heart of me.

If this was how the finest ambassador in Orlais responded to the change, the woman who’d taught me my manners, I was fucked.

“Forgive my surprise,” she said at last, “your face is…I thought those markings were permanent.”

“That makes two of us, I suppose.” My face. My face is...

“I’m sure,” she said very carefully. “Perhaps we could talk about other things, then.”

Smooth as glass, the Antivan’s features returned to a mask of diplomacy, leaving me to fumble with mine in surprise. We spent countless hours together every day; around the War Table, in her office, at the tavern playing Wicked Grace, even on the road when we traveled back and forth to Val Royeaux while securing the Montilyet’s nobility. I felt my cheeks flush hot. When, exactly, had I let myself forget that this was Orlais?

“Any word from Commander Cullen?”

“I fully anticipate his return by nightfall, however Leliana tells me lingering injuries and skirmishes have kept the bulk of our troops in the Arbor Wilds.”

“Let’s hope Briala and Gaspard play nice without a chaperone.”

“Indeed. Lady Morrigan believes we may have something of a reprieve while Corypheus reformulates his strategy. The delay may provide an opportunity for you to investigate some of the rumors coming in from the Emprise du Lion. It appears a faction of Red Templars have taken refuge in Suledin Keep.”

“Suledin...” 

“Here are the reports,” she said, handing me a sheaf of parchment. "And some requisitions from Ser Morris."

I kept my eyes fixed on the top paper: bear hide, everknit wool, silverite, dawnstone. I couldn't help but wonder, if I'd been born human would they bother me with such errands, or would they find an elf to do it?

“Oh, and I should mention, the Council of Heralds has officially welcomed Lord Evariste Lemarque to the Orlesian court.”

I felt a stab of empathy for Fairbanks. “Your time to shine, Ambassador. Let’s not leave him hanging.”

With a curt smile, I took my leave. If there was one thing Josephine could sell, it was the story of a reluctant hero. Back in the great hall, I was relieved to see the table by the hearth empty. I didn’t think I had it in me to come clean with Varric. However much I loved him, he was the most famous author in Thedas and mine was a story whose ending had already entertained one too many.

Though I heard the persistent _thwack_ of Cassandra’s practice sword as soon as I stepped outside, I ducked into the tavern instead. The Ambassador’s mix of shock and indifference cut deeper than I cared to admit, and I needed to develop a better handle on my own response before seeking out the Seeker. Cassandra was never one to mince words, and it would help if I had a few mixed reactions from familiar strangers to warm me up.

For all that he guarded his privacy, Solas had left me with none. My bareface was as much a challenge to those who knew me as my vallaslin had been to those who did not. Only the latter had been a privilege, proof that I belonged, while the curiosity of the former was an open invitation for anyone to pick at a wound that would never heal.

The more I thought about it, the more it seemed to have been done for spite.

Mercifully, Cabot gave no more than a deadpan, “Inquisitor,” when I slid up to the bar for a whisky and whatever the kitchen had ready.

“What’s the word?”

The dwarf didn’t look up from pouring, “Curious.”

Whisky in hand, I went upstairs to find a table. My plan was to finish the reports, then have a talk with Krem. We’d always enjoyed an easy rapport, and he seemed like a decent human being. I’d seen him out for drinks with Dalish before, so I felt like he might have a more informed reaction. A safe start.

I settled down to read, lingering over the details but shooting the whisky. The Emprise du Lion was a region where we spent very little time. I’d sent scouts to hold it, and I’d closed an enormous rift on the lake, but I’d never had a chance to explore as I had in the Emerald Graves. Now it seemed our scouts had spotted crimson tents within the walls of the abandoned keep, as well as the telltale glow of red lyrium at night. If there was a fight to be had, I’d leave at once. The Anchor was itching in my palm, and it seemed a lifetime since I'd stood on Samson's bloody corpse; I very much wanted another bloody corpse under my feet.

In a minute, Sutherland dropped off a dozen crescent handpies, and I cracked one open to cool, finding steamy bits of carrot and squab inside. It would be some time before they were cool enough to eat; I had yet to enjoy the human preference for scalding hot food.

“Hey you!” came a chipper voice from behind, and a hand ruffling my hair.

Sera took the chair across from me, spinning it around to slump over the frame as she straddled the seat. She snatched up a handpie and took a nip from the corner, sending a shower of flaky crumbs down her bodice.

“When did you—“

“Caught up with Cullcull ‘round Haven, me and Blackwall. Bull. Everyone else still draggin’ arse through the jungle I guess. Glad to be back where things make sense after the demon worshiping lies of Mythal. I mean, it’s impressive and all. You must feel like a tit for livin’ in the woods, but…haircut,” she trailed off, finally surfacing from her crazy monologue to actually _look_ at me.

“What’s going on with your face? Your elfy dealies are gone.”

She did this. She did this all the time. Over the Dalish, over mages, over the Creators, over Red Jennies, over Cole, over Solas, over elven glory, over the nobles I kept in my back pocket, and the nobles she skewered with her arrows. They weren't ever fights that I started, and they weren't ever fights that she finished, but that only meant leaving a dozen sore spots between us.

“Yeah, they’re gone. Long story.”

“Look atcher mouth, it’s all pink ’n normal and shite.”

"Is it? Because I still haven't looked."

"Wot, really? Definitely worth a look. Bet Elfy thinks so," she winked.

The lie flew out faster than a spell, "I didn't do it for him."

"Good, then. Cos that would be stupid."

“They're slave markings, alright?" I relented. “And I wasn’t keen on keeping them after that. Happy?”

“The Dalish,” she laughed so hard crumbs went flying everywhere. “They don’t know anything. I mean, you know _now,_ but they put on all this ‘real elf’ stuff, and I knew it! It’s all just fancy dress. Nobody knows anything about ‘real elves’ except they’re gone.”

What burned me most was that Sera was right in more ways than she could've guessed. I wondered how she’d like knowing her ancestors were the nobles she hated now? I wondered if that’s what Solas meant when he told her, _we’re not so far apart, you and I,_ when he’d said, _you are the furthest from what you were meant to be._ Was she meant to be a lady? Was I meant to be a slave? _I see what you truly are…_

“A mistake doesn’t mean it’s worthless,” I said after a breath. “We can choose to grow.”

“There’s that ‘we’ stuff again, ‘we’ means ‘us against them’ but I like ‘them,’” she laughed. “All those faces. That’s just funny.”

“Those faces are my brothers and sisters, Sera, fuck.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t doodle on ‘em if you don’t friggin’ know what it means.”

“Get the fuck out.”

“Pissy,” she said, somehow making it five syllables.

Sera snapped up another handpie as she stood, weaving through the empty chairs, grazing her fingertips across each tabletop between mine and the door to her cubby. I sat seething for a moment; she and Solas had been trying to scrub the Dalish off me from day one, and now that it was done neither of them could fathom why I'd even care. Like I’d just changed the gods damned shade of my lipstick.

I jumped up after her; I'd be damned if I kept pretending that having her around even made sense. Varric was my archer, Cole was my shadow, and Sera only ever picked the lock on doors better left shut.

“Wot?” she said when I followed into her little room.

“I said get the fuck out.”

“Of the tavern? I live here,” she flopped down into her pile of pillows.

“Skyhold. The Inquisition. Orlais. Take your pick.”

“Just like that?” The question sounded as incredulous coming from her as it had from Solas.

“Just like that," I repeated. "You said you like ‘them’ more than ‘us’, so go on, I’m sure ‘they’ miss you.”

“Knew it. Knew what you were.”

“A scary mage?"

“No,” she smirked. “A flat-ear.”

Neither of us saw it coming. Not the mind blast, not my fists, not my spit, not my screams, and it wasn’t until I was being bodily lifted off that I had any idea time had passed. It could only have been Iron Bull, because I was suddenly far too close to the ceiling.

“Woah, hey. Boss. Boss!”

The room smelled like ozone and Sera was screaming bloody murder, singed hair and charred clothes and violet light pouring from her eyes. Iron Bull slammed me into the bookshelf, weird shit and knickknacks falling down all around.

“Might wanna call off your freaky spirit buddy.”

I was fairly certain I didn’t, but Amalia evidently had had her fun and came humming back home. His eye flicked over my face, but Bull's expression remained unchanged and my feet remained well off the floor.

“Hey, Krem!” he shouted over his shoulder. “Go get Solas.”

“Absolutely not!” I thrashed and landed a kick square in the chest, what little good it did me.

“You got another healer in mind? Cos I know Dorian can’t patch that up and Ma’am’s not home.”

He kept his eye locked on mine for a minute longer, and I wondered what his Ben-Hassrath training told him.

“Fine. Have him clean her up, pay her whatever we fucking pay people, and slap some horse hard enough that it doesn't stop til Denerim.”

When my booted feet hit the ground, I could hear the blood signing from my knuckles, the promise of power crackling out from my skin. Oh, yes. I would certainly be heading out to find a fight before nightfall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I gave my Lavellan dark green lipstick, but I always head canoned it as an extension of her vallaslin, like the truth of June coming from her lips or something. Especially because June's vallaslin does split down her lip...
> 
> When you kick Sera out, she actually asks "Just like that?" with the same tone Solas uses when he asks the Inquisitor the same thing. After that, I started noticing curious echoes between the Solas/Sera/Lavellan dialogue. Solas even asks for Sera's forgiveness at one point, saying "you are fine as you are."


	64. In War, Victory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Road trip!

I entered Skyhold through the dungeon door to be sure I wouldn’t run into Krem and Solas on their way to the tavern, then made a circuitous path to the undercroft. Before heading out, I needed something, anything other than the Keeper’s robe Solas always watched me don piece by piece; his fingerprints were on every inch and every inch felt vulnerable.

“Inquisitor, hi!”

“Dagna,” I acknowledged as gently my temperament would allow.

Rummaging through my hoard, I found a collection of Grey Warden battlemage gear that I’d squirreled away. It was a fine set of light armor, handsome blue and grey leather with dragonscale pauldrons. It had been tailored down to my frame some time ago, but I’d never had the courage to wear it. I always said it was because I preferred fighting Dalish, but the truth was: Solas.

Now that my face neither justified a Keeper's robe nor offended his sensibilities, it seemed high time to find something else. Something that a Dalish wouldn’t knife me for, something to help me forget the hunger in his eyes after I’d killed Samson, when I was still…

“Going for a new look, huh?”

“Apparently.”

Dagna joined me to dig around for the matching boots and gloves and miscellany, and though she clearly stole a couple of sidelong glances, she handled it with far more discretion than Josephine.

“I think that’s _amazing,”_ she enthused, handing me the leather greaves.

“Yeah,” I said with enough apprehension to make it a question.

“Elves and Grey Wardens! Two great looks that go great together, I’ve always said. Well, not always. Just since I met the Hero of Ferelden back when I still lived in Orzammar. She’s incredible, you would have loved her, I just know it.”

“Because she’s an elf?”

“No, silly, cos she’s a mage! Maybe a blood mage, which is extra interesting, but not as interesting as the Anchor, because, I mean, there are a lot of blood mages out there but only one Anchor, and you—”

“Dagna.”

“Right! Rambling, sorry.”

I tucked the rest of the gear under my arm and stood. Gods bless, she was as cute as puppy but twice as underfoot. 

“You’re fine, durgen’len. Just not my best day ever.”

“Maybe you should take a lie-down? That always helps. And cocoa.”

“Wait, you're saying Neria Surana was a blood mage?”

She blanched. “I didn’t say that! I don’t know that, not really. Not for sure. But.”

“But?”

“Well, I only met her a few times, but she always had a lot of angry looking scars, like fresh _grrr._ You know? And I noticed a _paragon_ hale rune on her staff. That’s for endurance, lots of it. More of a warrior thing than a mage thing, really, so it stood out. Plus it was pretty. Pretty complicated! She always had the weirdest enchantments.” 

I shook my head yes, thinking of Hawke, thinking of the peculiar runes on her staff too, and of the blood still singing from my knuckles, faint and fading but present.

“Just a pet theory,” she said, back-peddling as if I were some Circle trained mage queasy over a little blood.

I shook my head again, this time to clear it. “Thanks for the help.”

“Easy greavesy.”

A page sent word to Dorian and Cassandra that we’d be leaving for the Emprise within the hour; after her gall in the Arbor Wilds, the Seeker wasn’t my first choice but Blackwall hadn’t even been back a candlemark and I wouldn’t put him on the road so soon. I hated to deprive Dorian and Bull of a proper reunion, but growing up under Deshanna I never felt comfortable being the only mage in a party and…

Well.

The only one I didn’t need to fetch was Cole, a constant shadow in my periphery since the moment I stormed out of the tavern. Besides, I wouldn’t dream of leaving without him; I was afraid of dreaming without him. I pushed those darker thoughts aside in favor of mindless preparation for the journey: changing into my new armor, packing a small bag, rebalancing my staff, and stealing a few moments with Amalia.

She’d been nothing but surprises since Crestwood, holding back on Dorian and Varric when I’d begged but laying into Sera when I hadn’t. She made herself known so rarely it was easy to forget she was, in fact, a sentient being with her own agenda. I felt like that knowledge put me on the precipice of something more, and considering my free time was about to be decidedly less-occupied I determined myself to explore that dynamic in the future. 

By the time I returned to the great hall, Varric had resumed his usual place by the fire.

“Warden Boots,” he saluted, eying the navy lambskin boots that came up over my knees. “Tell me you remembered socks.”

“Wool.”

“Atta girl.”

I risked a look, found his eyes narrow with concern, and forced myself not to flinch away at the memory of all I’d heard him say. 

“Ma serranas, Varric. For yesterday. For—”

“You kiddin’ me? I’ve been dying to wail on Chuckles for a while now.”

It was so morbidly true I couldn’t help but laugh. “I recall something about you taking a shot once before?”

“A _warning_ shot. Yesterday was the real deal.”

“Yeah, it was.”

“Look,” he said after a moment’s pause. “I don’t get it. I don’t claim to get it. Broody elves, I mean. But whatever his deal is, whatever makes him tick? That’s the problem here, not you. I’m not saying that as your friend, I’m saying as the guy who got duped into slummin’ sewers for the sela petrae that burned Kirkwall to the ground.

“He left us a decade’s worth of warning signs, but me and Hawke didn’t want to see them. We wanted to see our friend. We wanted to see the healer. But now all I see is where that got us, so I’m way past seeing what I want, and I sure as shit know the signs. I’m telling you, something ain’t right.”

Part of me wished I could just tell him outright. Solas being elvhen seemed almost mundane compared to the nefarious tone of the author’s fantasy, but I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.

“He’s not Anders, Varric.”

“Eh, you see one self righteous asshole, you’ve seen ‘em all.”

“Sounds like you’ve got all the material you need for another installment of _Swords and Shields._ ”

“So what, Cassandra’s paying you by the chapter now?”

“Something like that,” I said. “Speaking of….”

“Yeah, yeah. Grab the Seeker and go kill something.”

I met Dorian and Cassandra by the stables, where Dennet had already saddled Shartan and three mares. It was late afternoon, and I probably should have waited until morning, but I needed out and I needed blood and I needed to be very far from Sera and Solas. At least I could rest assured that one of them would be gone by the time I returned.

We’d barely made it up the pass when that particular hope was dashed by a voice in the distance.

“Inquisitor!”

Dorian glanced over his shoulder to give me a sharp look, something warning in his expression, and I turned to see Solas standing at the foot of the bridge. I frowned at Dorian, but pulled Shartan to circle back to the gatehouse where vhenan stood looking drawn and pale, no doubt weary from patching Sera up. I sank into my heels, unused to the way my booted feet seemed to slide against the stirrups.

“Hahren.” 

“The timing is…regrettable, yet I must ask that you reconsider traveling to the Emprise without a healer.”

“I’ll manage without you. Wasn’t that the plan?”

“I— I suppose. However, I found Josephine’s report in the tavern and it seems no fewer than three high dragons have been reported the immediate vicinity, and…” He trailed off, the rest too obvious to mention.

Solas was the only one with a natural affinity for healing, and Solas was the only who could cast a defensive wall, and Solas was the only one who could give me ice armor, and Solas was the only one who could smother our enemies with the veil, and Solas was the only one who could cast a life ward, and Solas was the only one who could sense elven artifacts, and Solas was the only one who fed my barrier, and, and, and, and, and.

“You fucking love it, don’t you. The fact that I need you so badly I can’t even argue.”

To his credit, Solas refrained from looking smug when he said, “I take no such pleasure.”

I let Shartan trail a few steps behind Solas as we walked out to the others, I felt deeply unnerved by the thought of his eyes on me. I had no idea who he was anymore, and it scared the shit out of me. Having already done the math, Dorian dismounted to unbuckle his pack at our approach.

“Too many mages spoil the spell,” he said to no one in particular, slinging the saddlebag over his shoulder.

"That why you're so spoiled?”

Dorian had the decency not to grin from ear to ear, though he did rake one hand through his hair in a particularly dashing sort of way. 

“I'll miss those field rations, drafty tents and lumpy bed rolls…”

I slid from Shartan’s back to land ankle deep in the snow, and Dorian draped on arm around my shoulder as we walked back to the bridge. When I could no longer hear the clink of Cassandra’s armor against her saddle I felt reasonably certain Solas wouldn’t overhear us; knife-ears were a very sharp thing…

“Healer.”

“Oh for— honestly, Rial, that’s why we have potions.”

“I know, I know.”

“It’s a power trip, that’s what it is. I’ve seen this dance before. All the rage in Minrathous.”

The thought hung in the air, uneasy. It seemed instinctively wrong, yet for all his wisdom Solas could be remarkably petty. He loved reminding Vivienne how she'd done nothing to seal the Breach. He reveled in testing Dorian's grasp of the veil, toying with Bull in chess, gambling until he'd left Blackwall with nothing but a bucket for his bits, and constantly batting at my knowledge of elven lore. It filled me with a sick sort of dread. Was that simply his way?

“Dread Wolf,” I swore. Had stripping off my vallaslin been another way of saying _checkmate_?

“No one’s breathed a word to Cassandra, by the by.” Dorian tipped his palm back and forth, as if to indicate a dicey situation.

“It won’t come up. If it’s not in Varric’s book or the Maker’s, she’s oblivious.”

“You’ve got a point there.”

“You should tell Bull, though. He deserves an explanation after that bit with Sera.”

“The Iron Bull? If I happen to see him.”

Dorian bent to kiss my cheek, landing perfectly in the hollow place that had never been marked by my vallaslin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, my Solas is fully spec'd in Rift Mage, Spirit, and Ice. <3 Rial is a hodgepodge of Necromancy, Storm, Fire and Spirit, but built with minimal overlap because poor bb was trying to diversify.
> 
> Next chapter: WHAT COULD POSSIBLY GO WRONG?!


	65. A Private Moment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra and Solas, just shooting the breeze on their way to Suledin Keep. A short chapter, but I'll post the second half later tonight if I can. <3

After navigating down the mountain path and trekking south for an hour, we finally reached a broad plain where we no longer had to ride single file. We fanned out a little, hahren taking point with Cole while Cassandra and I rode nearly side by side. By sunset we could see Sahrnia in the distance, crimson light turning the terra cotta walls a brilliant ochre visible for miles.

It unsettled me how nearly normal things seemed on the surface. How many times had the four of us journeyed out together?

But now there was a sickness running beneath it all as I longed for _Solas_ in place of this stranger. Some crazed part of me kept thinking something awful had happened, Tranquility without the sunburst or possession without the spirit. And then I’d feel awash in embarrassment that I kept flailing for such wild explanations when the truth was simply put: he did not want me.

That fact alone kept me biting my tongue the entire journey, so it startled me when Cassandra spoke up out of the blue.

“I admit, I know little of their meaning, but I did not think it was possible to remove Dalish tattoos.”

“Most Dalish would agree with you, and see little value in doing so,” came his mocking reply.

“Then how?”

“It was done in a…private moment. I would rather not discuss it.”

“Of course, I should not have asked.”

I thumbed at the leather strap of my reins. I’d _scratched_ him in a private moment, a thing he could hide or heal, but what he’d done to me was as public as a pillory. I wanted to rage, but it was not for him to see. He’d already seen every piece of me, and I would not give another. I wished so desperately that I’d kept something hidden and safe, as if it would hurt less to imagine he’d only rejected a part of me but not really _me._ That would be a pretty thing to think. 

“Nonsense, Cassandra,” I said with a laugh, bending my hurt into something breezy. “I’m the literal face of the Inquisition, I have no expectation of privacy.”

“Even so,” she apologized, “I should not have presumed.”

“Presumed what, that we’re friends? We’ve fought side by side since Haven, I should hope you call me that by now.”

“Inquisitor, I…I am truly touched.”

I flashed a broad but affected smile that the Seeker returned with charming shyness. Even so, she said no more on the subject, though I suppose that was for the best. I discovered the depth of his indifference in Crestwood, no good could come of trying to provoke a reaction now.

Yet as we continued on, I couldn’t take my eyes off his broad shoulders, couldn’t stop wondering if he’d healed the scratch I’d given him. In a tent, in the Arbor Wilds, with me hanging on so tightly and trying not to make a sound. Gods, I hadn’t known it would be the last time. It hadn’t even been his name that I whimpered, he’d asked for the other, and…

It was so fucked up.

He was so fucked up.

That darkness didn’t seem to matter when he was mine, but now it was turned against me. No rhyme, no reason, just his unshakeable certainty that I had been a mistake, or some half-assed platitude about deserving better. Better than an elvhen? Better than the man who called me vhenan? The Anchor flared in my palm, bleeding straight through the glove like it wasn’t there, and I must have made some small sound because Cassandra turned to look at me.

“Inquisitor?”

“There’s,” I flexed my hand at the unexpected ache of it. “There’s a rift, two actually.”

That much was true, at least, but Solas would see through it. Knew how the Anchor ran away from me when…gods fucking damn it. Focus. I finally extinguished it and exhaled through my nose, pacing out calming breaths to be sure it wouldn’t flare again. 

“They’re not close,” I twisted in the saddle, “maybe five miles? Due east, but that’s the wrong direction. Let’s press on to the Highgrove camp.”

We could have turned in for the night at Sahrnia, but Amalia first came to my dreams in Highgrove. She was the closest thing I had to a secret, a spell that no one else could master. If there were anything I could do to bolster that connection, to grow some new piece of me that was mine alone, then I would.

As we moved in deeper through the blown out rubble that had once been a village, I saw a glint of sunlight on metal as the imposing figure of a chevalier stepped into view. I hit the ground in an instant, languidly drawing my staff to meet him; Gaspard had called his chevaliers to the Arbor Wilds. Whatever his appearance, this man was something else.

The warrior was almost painfully Orlesian, honey blond hair that fell to his shoulders and the sort of sunkissed tan that had never know pallor. He seemed unfazed by my Grey Warden armor, but his eyes trailed to the tips of my ears. That sort, then.

“Long way from your brethren, Ser.”

“No longer ‘ser,’ simply Michel de Chevin. At your service.”

“I know that name,” I said carefully, suddenly giddy that he could not recognize me as Dalish. “We have a mutual friend.”

“Oh! That is glad news, few hold me in such high regard these days. What is our friend’s name?”

“Amalia.”

It was instantaneous, his look of utter confusion, the violet mist that swirled up from the ground at his feet, the sharp turn of terror as he inhaled the nightmare, and Cassandra’s startled _What!_ Chevin thrashed unexpectedly with his sword arm, but it was an easy dodge, his grip gone lax with fear. A heartbeat later his sword was in my hand and running through him, his pommel slick beneath my fingers and his blood bright on my blue leather boots.

Done in five seconds flat. Not enough to smother the pain in my chest, not enough to quell the hunger in my palm, and certainly not enough to atone for Clan Virnehn, but I’d hoped for blood by nightfall and I had it— the closest I’d come to satisfaction since I stood atop Samson’s corpse, oblivious to the world slipping from my grasp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you side with Imshael he kills Chevin so I don't feel like this is terribly out of canon...
> 
> Rial's deal is this: she knows only of Michel de Chevin via other Dalish clans and Mihris (who shares June's vallaslin!) so she's waaaay biased. Honestly, I don't think she even knows about Imshael's involvement, because I have a feeling Mihris would have kept that relatively vague.
> 
> Also: you guys, I am so sorry. This story is like off the rails now into major depressing ass shit and I just...there's just no other way. It's fucking sad as hell, Solas ruins everything. Everytime I think Rial might be a liiiiiiiiitle melodramatic, I keep thinking: No seriously, how much is the appropriate level of melodrama if your true love is a god and he dumps you?! There's no upper limit!!


	66. Call Me Imshael

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Imshael was an absolute joy in The Masked Empire, and I wish we could have enjoyed more of his mayhem and mind-reading in the game. Besides, the micro-interaction between Solas and Imshael is priceless in the post break-up universe.

“Call me…Imshael.”

My heart quickened the moment I heard its name. I couldn’t have become a necromancer under a man like Viuus Anaxas without also making a thorough study of the Forbidden Ones, four of the most ancient and powerful spirits known in Thedas. According to lore, they revealed the secret of blood magic to the very first mages.

The Warden defeated Gaxkang the Unbound during the Fifth Blight, and Varric swore that Hawke pried her favorite staff out of Xebenkeck’s bloody fingers. Perhaps blood mages were more willing to bite the hand… but I was not interested in joining their ranks if it meant killing the penultimate Forbidden One. Not while it made introductions and offered an end to bloodshed, not after exhausting my mana on a fucking red lyrium giant.

The aura churning around its shemlen facade was chaotic— lightning waiting for a chance to strike, desperate to course along whatever path would burn the brightest, bolting jagged and unpredictable yet never missing the mark. Alluring because, however I tried to make my magic steady and bright like the flame in a human hearth, lightning was the element I understood best. 

“You’re a demon,” I said, knowing that sort of thing would bother him.

He cleared his throat, “Choice. Spirit. And, true to my name, I will show you that you have a choice.”

“I like having choices.”

“Well then, you’re going to _love_ me.”

It could kill me at one pace or a hundred, so I walked as close as I dared. Close enough to feel the illusion of warmth, close enough to see the simulated pulse flickering at its neck, close enough inhale a distinctly human scent, close enough that I could only think of Imshael as the man it chose to be.

“It rarely hurts to listen,” came a cautious voice, “but trust is another matter entirely.”

Rage prickled at my fingertips; vindictive son of a bitch. “I recall the lesson, hahren.”

Imshael’s gaze flickered from me to some point over my shoulder and then back, the corner of his mouth turning up in a calculated show of amusement. I raised an eyebrow for him to continue.

“Simple,” he said. “We don’t fight, and I grant you power, shower you with riches, maybe virgins, or…what’s something else that starts with _v_?”

He reached out and touched my lower lip with his thumb, tugging a line down the center to grasp my chin. His eyes swept up my cheek, across my forehead, and down the other side as he tilted my head to examine my neck.

“The magic still…lingers,” he savored the word.

“So the famed Imshael is a desire demon after all.”

“It was worth a shot,” he shrugged, releasing me. “Alright, then, back to my original offer. What’s your choice?”

“I choose to let you go.”

“That's...atypical. What do you want in return?”

“If I took something in return, I wouldn’t be making a choice, would I? I’d be accepting a bribe. But if I simply let you go, I’d be choosing something far more interesting.”

“More interesting than virgins?”

“Friendship.”

“Honestly, you are the worst judge of character.”

“I know.”

“You really don’t.”

He took a step closer, catching me in a kiss. My stomach twisted in shock, and when I gasped he simply slid his tongue between my lips. The unfamiliar shape of his mouth and the scrape of human stubble against my chin felt more dangerous than the fact that he was, quite literally, Forbidden. Imshael tasted dark and intoxicating, hot and sharp like mulled wine as the kiss deepened.

His magic licked at the Anchor, then he suddenly broke away. For a moment, I thought it was with a wince, but by the time I’d blinked it was clearly a smirk, broadening into a devious grin. I instinctively took a step back but he held me close. It seemed my offer was paying off and backfiring all at once, that I was not nearly so good at The Game as Solas said.

“No, no, don’t be modest. He’s right, you’re very good at it,” he said, dipping into my thoughts to lead everyone else astray. “Alright, Herald of Andraste, since you’ve made this so droll, I accept.”

I stood stock still, too stunned to move, too stunned to speak, heart racing and cheeks flushed.

“Oh, don’t act suspicious now, this was your idea. I’ve never had a friend before, you’ll have to show me the ropes. Do I go ahead and stab you in the back now, or is it customary to wait?”

However nefarious, I couldn’t help but laugh with a dull sort of terror. “Let’s wait.”

“Another time, then!”

In the next heartbeat, Imshael dissolved in a burst of smoke and sulfur, leaving me to stare after the shape of a raven growing small against the cloudy sky. A single black feather drifted down to land across my bloody boots, and I stood there fixated on it a moment before cupping both hands over my mouth and nose to hide their shaking. Fuck.

“Go raise a blighted flag over this place, I need a minute.”

When I was reasonably certain that everyone had gone, I shuddered a ragged breath and sank down to sit on my heels. Eventually, I reached out to touch the feather. No hint of magic, no glimmer of the fade, just a perfectly ordinary reminder of a perfectly ordinary friend. Well, perhaps not _perfectly_ ordinary. At least Imshael offered me the choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all know my Solas-is-Felassan theory by now... given that, I absolutely believe that Imshael recognized him, but kept quiet as a favor to or in fear of the Dread Wolf (the Band of Three sometimes referred to the Forbidden Ones as the Forgotten Ones, and while it could be a typo, Bioware's so careful with their lore that I think there's a connection; hell, their names are close enough that I'm willing to just infer a connection). Even so, I think Imshael would take a certain delight in fucking with Solas's...choices.
> 
>  **Updated to say:** I don't know what I ever did to deserve it, but [Tsyele](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Tsyele/pseuds/Tsyele) rewrote this scene from Solas' POV and it is GLORIOUS. So go read [Two Choices](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3479828) and thrill in the wonder that is Dark Solas.
> 
> I also wrote an [alternate/extended](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3560504) version of this scene wherein Rial is injured by a red lyrium giant while trying to exit the keep and Solas must heal her.


	67. But Then You Turned Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a lot of things happen and I drift slightly out of canon.

Cole took off his boots as if to lead by example, pale fingers flying down the row of buckles and straps I could still see in the dark. I tugged off my tall leather boots, and set them with his in the corner. Then came our jackets and there we stopped, though Cole added his hat to the pile.

We crawled under the blankets heaped over the bedrolls we’d pushed together, still clad in our bloody leather breeches and tunics because death was a thing we were not troubled to wear. I’d shared a tent with Cole on any number of occasions, though he tended to sit rather than sleep, but now he stretched out on his side so that I could press up against his back.

I didn’t need to be held anymore, I needed something to hold on to, and if Cassandra was perplexed that I’d stranded her with Solas, she said nothing of it when we made our goodnights. At any rate, she probably thought it the least curious event of a day that began a punch thrown in a tavern. Then there was our sudden departure, an arrival marked by the death of Michel de Chevin, my relentless press to take the Keep thereafter, and the ordeal with Imshael.

It was just that I couldn’t stop. If I stopped then I'd have time to think, and if I thought then I thought of...it was only the fourth night since Crestwood, and I had no memory of the third.

“You asked me," he cautiously volunteered. "You asked me to forget, it wasn’t my idea.”

“Nightmares?”

“Those too. After the mirror.”

“Oh.” So then I had seen it.

My blood felt like lightning, alive in every vein, a jolt of energy barring me from the Fade and leaving me trapped to think. When Corypheus was dead, the Inquisition would have no use for me. Even if they did, Thedas would have no use for the Inquisition. My value was clear cut and well defined, and if I wanted to know what happened to elves and mages that outlived their usefulness, I had two thousand years of human history to be my guide.

The Hero of Ferelden was beloved by the King, but where was she now? I had no lover or King to protect me, not that either had done her any good.

I could work with Briala in Val Royeaux where everyone wore a mask, but my Dalish accent would give me away. I could pretend to be a city elf and find some clan to take me, explain that my mother was Dalish, that she’d told me the tales; something to excuse an excess of knowledge because if it were ever known that I’d been First only to give away my vallaslin, I’d be lucky to get Fen’Harel’s teeth and a ten minute head start.

We could be a little vicious about betrayal.

But if I were quiet and careful, if I did not use the Anchor, if I failed to mention the time I physically walked the Fade, I might find a clan who needed a mage badly enough to take a talented flat-ear without asking too many questions. Every day a lie, all of it, forever; I could be Solas.

I tightened my hold on Cole’s arm, fisting up the rough cloth of his patched tunic and pressing my forehead between his shoulder blades, panic rising in my chest. He felt so much bigger than hahren, broader across the shoulders, thicker arms, a wider waist— human. A spirit made flesh, pulled through from the Fade. The idea was a comfort.

I could go to Nevarra, to Viuus. I was a necromancer in full, the Mortalitasi would not turn me away for the shape of my ears. Not with a spirit like Amalia. I could discover new magics, forgotten things, make a home among the spirits living in the dead, collecting secrets of my own, pieces of me that vhenan would never know.

The tension loosened a bit, my breath came a little easier, and I broke through the veil and into the fade, a fitful sleep under blankets in a memory of the tent.

“The pup follows,” said Amalia, her accent bending the last word.

But Cole was not there, and I rolled on my back to look up at the spirit sitting behind me. She wore a dark purple tunic bound at the waist in black leather, with her bronze hair parted down the middle and falling in tight corkscrews all around. She reached down to brush a few strands of hair from my face.

Outside the tent I heard commotion, one panicked voice crying _vhenan, please!_ and another more calm and sure that replied, _you can’t hurt me!_ It was like that all night, demons begging me to leave the protection of Amalia’s tent, and Cole keeping them at bay.

“In the Necropolis,” she said to distract me, “I would be always at your side.”

She hummed a strange tune, a lullaby of some forgotten age, and kept her vigil through the night, fingers tapping against my skin. A rhythm, a ward against the night. Then, my forehead was pressed against Cole’s tunic once more, and the red canvas of our tent was aglow with sunrise. I was no longer exhausted, but weary from dreams without joy. He used to take me to the shining places. I used to wake flush with mana.

“Are you alright?” I asked, worried that Cole spent the night slitting throats with the face of a friend.

“No, it’s not like that. Not Pride but Desire, horns black and spotted skin, the voice of a woman.”

“Are you tired?”

“No. I stopped them from hurting you. They don’t mean to, they long for longing, use angles of anguish to cut through control but it provides no pleasure. Makes them angry, eager, anxious to soothe the suffering, consummating, consumption.”

“Have you...ever wanted to possess someone?”

“No. It would be wrong to help only one person. Being me means many more hurts have healed.”

“Ma serannas, sweet Cole. I’m stealing so much of your time.”

“I like helping, but he should not have hurt you.”

I held onto him tightly for a moment more, then kissed the crown of his head before tossing back the blankets and dispelling the fire rune beneath us. I flaked off some of Michel de Chevin’s blood from where it had dried on my leathers, then shrugged back into my dragonscale pauldrons, buckling the straps tight across my shoulders. My boots were gone, though, so I made no point of keeping the socks.

“Good day to you, Inquisitor,” a shemlen greeted me when I stepped from the tent.

“Morning, scout.”

The air outside was fragile, crystalline, and my breath came out in soft clouds that seemed to hang where I left them. Behind me, the cliff face that loomed over Highgrove Camp was heavy with ice, enormous stalactites glittering in the morning light. Everything was still so quiet, small sounds coming only from buckled boots against the hard packed snow as a handful of recruits changed their watch.

I went to the campfire to stand by Cassandra, who was crumbling a chunk of hardtack into a steaming bowl of broth, dunking each piece under with a spoon and waiting for them to regain some semblance of flavor. She offered it to me but I shook my head. I’d take a restorative and call it even, I'd lost my appetite somewhere in the fade.

“A raven came for you this morning,” she said suddenly, handing me a silverite tube.

“Oh?”

“I will never understand elves,” she looked at my bare feet in the snow. “How are your toes not black with frostbite?”

“Our skin is different,” he said, startling me because I had not heard him approach. “A part of the elemental forces rather than apart from them. Inquisitor.”

“Hahren.”

I did not turn from Cassandra to look at him, but a hammered tin mug came into view, held delicately from the top by three slender fingers. After an instant of hesitation, I took it, cupping the bottom and captivated by how gently he released it to me. It was insane that desperation could spring from anything so mundane, but there it was. My vhenan, a perfectly cordial stranger.

In the next moment he offered a second mug to Cassandra, but she turned it away, halfheartedly gesturing with her bowl of breakfast to explain. I took the opportunity to wander off to the mouth of the cave where Shartan and the horses were tethered just inside. My clever boy nipped at the palm of my hand, huffing into the Anchor in search of some treat, and I fished up a piece of deep mushroom from my pocket.

When I took a careful sip from the steaming mug, it became clear that hahren hadn’t give me tea, but a tisane of spindleweed and rashvine. I dumped the tonic out all at once, swearing under my breath. Spirit resistance. It was bullshit that I needed it, and bullshit that he’d condescend to give it.

I nearly threw the blighted mug, but caught myself and stood hand on hip until the moment passed, then walked deeper into the cave to read my missive. Away from prying eyes, I flicked the latch of the silverite canister and caught the parchment scroll that popped up. My heart stopped at the familiar script. _Da'len, I would not trouble you normally. You have enough on your shoulders, fighting ancient Tevinter magisters while representing our people…_

Oh, gods. I had to read it twice to be sure I hadn’t jumped over a point in my shock. Wycome. Creators, a safe place with _few_ rifts? I’d heard no report of rifts in the Free Marches at all; why was I not told? The Inquisition did not belong to Orlais and Ferelden alone. Shit.

I jogged back down to Highgrove, pushing panic aside in favor of a plan. Back to Skyhold for soldiers and supplies? Straight to the Storm Coast and a ship? Yes. No, Jader. It would be quicker to sail out the Waking Sea then north past Brandel’s Reach. Bandits, I could handle. Rifts I could close with support from Deshanna, maybe Jovan to get some blades in the battle, a complement of archers at a safe distance. It would have to be enough. If the raids were so bad that outside help was needed, I could bring no one of my own; Lavellan's archers would be picking off shem and flat-ears on sight…

I scrubbed a hand over my bare face, waited for the nausea to pass. Creators, fuck.

“Inquisitor, if you have a moment.”

“Not now,” I brushed past the requisitions officer, then called over my shoulder. “Get a saddle on Shartan.” 

Cassandra jumped up from her place by the fire, “What? Where are you going?”

“Jader. Check on the mines if you like, head back to Skyhold. I’ll send word when I can.”

I nicked my staff from the tent, and my bag, then emptied the potions table of every vial of lyrium and restorative in the drawer; I had gold enough for more, but I'd save it for a ship. I darted back to the cave and a scout handed me Shartan’s lead, which I slung over his neck before clipping my bag to the saddle.

“Inquisitor?” Hahren was at my elbow, far too close. “You cannot mean to go to Jader alone.”

Mercifully, Cole was on it, “Bandits, armed and heavily armored, outnumbered hunters. Rifts in the valley, da’len ma halani.”

“Your clan has moved so far south?”

“No, Wycome, I just need a gods damned ship.”

His fingers laced around Shartan’s bridle even as I mounted. 

“You cannot.”

“I absolutely can.”

I shoved a bare foot against his chest to push him back and he caught me by the ankle, skin on skin contact that took my breath away.

“Look at me,” he demanded, but I could not. He adjusted his grip, reducing the world to a band of heat stronger than any shackle. “Then listen. It will take a fortnight to reach Wycome, even in fair weather. The Inquisition has allies in the Free Marches, use them. Send a raven, let Nightingale move against your enemies.”

He was right. Whatever he thought of me, he was fucking right.

“Even so. There are rifts in the valley, no one else can close them. I must go.”

“Then go from Skyhold. Go prepared.”

I looked up at him then, the first time I’d really _seen_ him since Crestwood. The instant our eyes met, the air felt biting cold against my skin where he’d released me as quickly as if he’d been burned.

“Ar lasa mala revas,” said Cole with staggering slowness. “You are so beautiful.”

For one perfect instant, the raw, ragged pain of everything that followed fell away, forgotten, and I remembered what it felt like in between that heartbeat and the next. His mouth on mine and the overwhelming certainty that I was precious and beloved, that I was beautiful, that I belonged. I had not remembered that my first reaction to the skin he’d scrubbed clean had been bliss.

However Compassion sustained that moment, the thread holding me aloft was cut and nothing would keep my head above water. I was drowning. Blood in my mouth, my heart in his hand, panic, panic, dread, and the sight of him walking away, the Wolf tearing out his throat, demons whispering in my ear, and the certain knowledge that I would never go home.

“But then you turned away. Why?”

“I had no choice,” Solas said so quietly that it seemed like something I must have dreamed.

“She is barefaced, embarrassed, and she doesn't know. She thinks it's because of her.”

“You cannot heal this, Cole,” he said. “Please, let it go.”

Ma halani, I thought, but it must have been a prayer and Cole the only god to ever answer.

“He hurts, an old pain from before, when everything sang the same,” he whispered, one pale hand curling around my ankle where Solas had held it. “You're real, and it means everyone could be real. It changes everything, but it can't. They sleep, masked in a mirror, hiding, hurting, and to wake them—”

Cole gasped suddenly, fingers relaxing even as he lost his grip on something else.

“Where did it go?” he turned around awed and angry.

“I apologize, Cole. That is not a pain you can heal.”

The words twisted into me. I’d been real for a time, but then came Abelas and a spark of hope that he would not die alone. If his people still lingered in uthenera, what need for companionship would he find in a shadow? I dug in my heels and Shartan was off— Solas had millennia to sort it all out, but Clan Lavellan did not. The quick blood in our veins would bleed out all too soon, and neither the humans nor the elvhen would mourn us.

Please, Cole, tell Leliana. Send skirmishers to Wycome. Tell them I ride to Jader.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what I ever did to deserve it, but [Tsyele](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Tsyele/pseuds/Tsyele) rewrote the scene with Imshael with a Solas POV and it is GLORIOUS. So go read [Two Choices](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3479828) and thrill in the wonder that is Dark Solas.
> 
> Fen’Harel’s teeth are a Dalish punishment described in The Masked Empire, pants (or was it shoes?) with nails inside- a gift from the Dalish to anyone trying to escape.
> 
> **Edited to add: Deedy Loves Cake made a ridiculously phenomenal comic panel of[Solas gathering rashvine](http://deedylovescake.tumblr.com/post/116079261594/solas-went-through-all-the-trouble-to-lovingly#tumblr_notes) to make the tisane for Rial and it's freaking adorable.**


	68. Even Her Lies Are True

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I for one always hoped the Protect Clan Lavellan wartable quest would have given us something more, especially because it outright states there are rifts in the Free Marches, so this is my exploration of what that might have been.

The trip itself was hell. I’d never realized how wide a berth the humans gave the Dalish. Not so a barefaced elven woman; drunken sailors propositioned me almost continuously, but offered payment only once. And when that particular shem turned indignant, a silver _was_ rather generous considering the going rate, I spared him the nightmare of Amalia by restricting myself to a blade.

Besides, the last thing I'd needed was a shipful of assholes wanting to kill the mage.

Landing in Wycome wasn’t exactly a relief. I knew its streets better than any other in the Marches, having come to buy lyrium and metalwork for the aravels any number of times, but I failed to own the crowds as I had before. Once I'd been a torch, drawing humans that longed for the exotic, noble brats eager to start a fight, and city-elves curious about a life they’d never know. Every trip had been a whet-stone to sharpen my ears, but now the blades were dull.

I felt like a ghost of myself, invisible. Just another elf.

I’d shed my Grey Warden armor back in Jader for something less conspicuous, but traveling robes would be of no use in battle. I found a mage-goods shop tended by a Tranquil who helped outfit me in deep green snoufleur leather and a full length cloak trimmed in fennec fur with slits in the hood. He reassembled my staff for a nominal fee, I’d taken off the blade, grip, and enchantments so it could pass for a walking stick, then allowed access to a small room where I could reattune it.

I certainly felt safer afterward, but it wasn’t until I’d escaped the city and begun my descent that I felt secure. In the open valley, I could defend myself in ways that crowded streets would not allow. Well, not without casualties, anyway.

So strange, venturing out on my own. Ever since the conclave, I’d grown accustomed to constant companionship. I hadn’t been alone in any meaningful way since days spent crawling along the mountainside after Haven, waist deep in snow with the Anchor flaming against the pain of a dislocated shoulder and a broken wrist. The night that…

It took an hour before fields of barley and pumpkin gave way to wilderness, and from there I tracked Lavellan easily. Our falon marked the way, little stones stacked and warded to stand in face of the elements, each whispering directions to the next. I touched one, wondering if my sister had been the one to cast the spell. When the colors finally shifted at the edge of the woods to indicate an active camp, I pulled up my hood.

The tip of each ear peeking through would have to be introduction enough. I'd not test the shock of my bareface against my clan’s wary nerves; in the logic of a heartbeat, no archer would stay her hand. If the roles were reversed, I’d suspect an abomination. Not even the rumor of a spell to remove vallaslin survived the fall of Arlathan, but demons roamed wherever the Dalish wandered.

These woods in particular were home to many strange things, myself included. Even so, Wycome had always been safe haven. The city faced too many threats at sea to bother a quiet clan on the fringe. Besides, we were the ones who kept bandits at bay and killing them was its own reward. We never looted their bodies because we had no interest in their filth and, in turn, the farmers never seemed to mind if a few sheafs of wheat went missing, if a few rows of corn were felled.

We weren’t stealing and we weren’t buying, we did as we pleased and the humans gave us our due. Knowing Abelas, the arrangement no longer seemed so proud. But it was one that had worked for decades and it could be no coincidence that bandits a Lavellan could not handle came while a Lavellan was Inquisitor. No, this sniffed of The Game, and it boiled my blood that a tendril of shem politics would creep out to poison the woods where I was born.

Over the soft sound of bare feet on pine needles, I heard a bowstring pull tight as an old friend assessed me a potential threat.

My staff fell as I raised both hands and I let the tremble of a different sort of fear speak to my harmlessness. My barrier would hold through the first volley, but if I were forced to defend myself no words would calm them. The Anchor would flare, the mark would be unfamiliar, and a thousand arrows would fall. I might fade step and be free, but the chance to peacefully reintroduce myself would be gone.

So there was no relief sweeter than the harsh elven man who stepped from between the trees, feral grin splitting the mask of Elgar’nan. He flipped his daggers with feigned effort like some cocky show-off who’d never seen real battle, and his sapphire eyes held an affected leer as if he were searching for anything other than the shape of a blade against my thigh. Both were the lies of a practiced rogue, and Jovan loved nothing more than goading some fool into underestimating his skill.

“Dropped your stick, mage,” he tsked.

“Loan me yours, knifey.”

“If you insist.”

He sheathed both daggers with a grin and was nearly on me, but I put up a hand and fell back a step.

“How many eyes out there?”

“Loving this cloak and dagger shit, huh? ”

A chorus of _andaran atishan_ rang through the woods, followed by one bright and clear acknowledgement: _Sister._ I couldn’t help but grin.

“Aneth ara, Sanumin! Lethallin,” I called out. “Go tell ’Shanna I’ve come home. I’ll meet her at the edge of camp, but… give me and Jovan a minute alone, hey?”

Smug laughter bubbled up from everywhere at once, and Jovan crossed his arms, half put-out and half-amused but not even remotely fooled. He cocked his head to the side, regarding me curiously until the woods grew quiet once more. I’d thought of nothing but this moment for two weeks, yet no matter my approach I saw no telling of the tale that wouldn’t end with the tip of his blade at my throat.

The man who worshipped the god of vengeance would not sit patiently through a nuanced tale, but so what if he did? I had no proof of what Solas claimed or evidence that he was even elvhen, much less a single reason for the Dalish to trust what he’d told me. If I stripped away what I _felt,_ Solas left me with nothing but dark and damning facts.

The fact was that he said trust was a mistake, the fact was that I didn’t listen. The fact was that he offered me a choice, the fact was that I asked for nothing in return. The fact was that I disowned my people, the fact was that I abandoned my god. The fact was that I would’ve regretted nothing if he would’ve stayed by my side.

The facts were unforgivable, but the truth was that I’d lie.

“Istimaethoriel didn’t think you’d actually come,” Jovan paced away from me, tying up his dark hair and cracking his neck to either side. “Told her you would.”

“It’s my mess. Someone’s fucking with you to fuck with me.”

“Your shem, Jester, did good work. Noticed the bandits wore durgen’len armor, came out swinging Templar blades. That’s the sort of money only Tony'd piss away.”

He meant Antoine, the Duke of Wycome; not that I’d ever expect to hear a proper title on his tongue. “Interesting, he’s thrown more money at the Inquisition than Prince Vael.”

“Ah, shemlen friendship. As priceless as gold and twice as malleable.”

“I’ve missed you, ma’sa.”

“Then why hide, Souveri'alas, did Andraste disfigure you?”

I pulled off my glove and held out my palm, letting only the faintest light seep from the Anchor’s scar so that I did not startle him.

“Not Andraste.”

“Don’t care if your whole face cracks and glows like that, take off the hood.”

“It’s called the Anchor,” I continued, letting it pulse brighter until my whole forearm was consumed, “because it tethers me to the fade, to a Creator’s magic.”

His breath came a little quicker, “Which god?”

“I don’t know, apparently a jealous one.”

“What do you mean?”

I wouldn’t play a round of Diamondback with Jovan for all the gold in Thedas, but I’d found the perfect bluff. No one knew how to remove vallaslin, no one knew how the Anchor worked, no one but Solas or some elven god could contradict me, and neither would interfere. Vhenan took nothing that I did not freely give, but I’d not let the rest go without a fight.

“The Anchor won’t tolerate any other mark of magic.”

Jovan wet his lips, thinking it through. “Not a mage, Rialas. Add it up for me.”

“The same magic that branded my palm dispelled my vallaslin.”

“Elgar’nan,” he swore, taking a step back.

“Maybe. I just don’t know. One of my advisors says that if we recover the orb that tore the veil we can determine which god binds me, but I don’t know that I’ll ever be free of the Anchor. I don’t know that I can ever take up vallaslin again.”

“Show me.”

I didn’t dim the Anchor when I pulled back my hood, because if Dorain had taught me anything it was that a flare for the dramatic could make even the most mundane spell seem like magic of another order. I needed the accident in my palm to bathe the choice on my face, I needed the touch of a god to transcend the touch of a man, I needed Jovan to see the Herald instead of harellan.

Either way, it killed a piece of me.

Jovan was the first boy I’d ever kissed, the first man I ever loved, and the first Dalish I’d ever betrayed. The half of his face that wasn’t forever cobalt drained of all color, and he exhaled as heavily as if something had knocked the wind from him. Fingers so nimble they could pick any lock were shaking as he reached for me, featherlight to brush away my fringe of hair.

“You look like that girl in the creek.”

Thirteen years ago, thin sliver of a moon, air so humid and thick the fireflies were swimming. Bathing alone, a song to June in my heart but not yet on my skin, and a black haired boy stealthing into the water. A pinch, a turn, my complete surprise, then one kiss followed by another.

Now his hands were on my hips and his forehead bent to mine, a gesture that I returned without caring how falsely I’d earned it. We stood there forever, sheltered by the woods of Wycome, wind in the leaves above and the weary earth I’d been named for beneath our toes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ma'sa= my one in Elven, which I've invented to mean "my first" a term of endearment for one's first lover, because nobody values history like the Dalish.
> 
> Thanks for bearing with me through this Solas-free chapter, and my descent into a darker Rial. I feel so weird introducing a new character this late in the game, but Jovan has had a few shoutouts in the past....technically.


	69. Aware of the Metaphor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It seems like any mention of Fen'Harel can only be a) a sly joke b) over the top irony c) heavy handed foreshadowing or d) the laughable elephant in the room. Yet avoiding the Dread Wolf minimizes his actual impact, perhaps the single most invoked god in the Dalish pantheon? He's part of Marithari's blessing and Merrill's favorite curse, and if you side with the Werewolves in DAO the Lady of the Forest mentions him by name. We see his statue everywhere, see his ring (unique item), his teeth (unique amulet), his fang (dagger), and his constellation. So while every reference makes the player laugh or squirm, the Inquisitor is having a 100% non ironic experience.

I don’t know how long we stood there, only that the tears on either of our cheeks fell for different reasons.

Jovan saw the Dalish rising, our gods returning to walk among us and restore the days of old, but I’d seen the days of old: one generation of slaves giving rise to the next and millennia spent bowed before murdered, mad, or missing gods. I doubted even Mythal— when I’d nearly drown in the Well of Sorrows it was Solas, not the goddess, whose voice cried out the loudest.

If she'd been murdered how mighty could she be?

So while we scrabbled for the past and paid homage to silent gods, humans laid claim to a future bought with subterfuge and gold. And that was all well and good so far as Wycome was concerned— my prayers had brought me nothing, but I played a pretty Game.

“We should go,” he said after a time, tugging up my hood in silent confirmation that the sight could not precede the story and that the story could not wait. It wasn’t safe for us to linger. Leliana’s skirmishers had pushed back the bandits, but the archers we’d banished for privacy left a gap in our defense. We were on stolen time; the Duke would not sit idle.

Jovan took my hand in his to lead me through the woods. We walked along in a silence punctuated only by the muted jangle of bone and crystal enchantments dangling with Imshael's feather from my stave. Lethallin moved beside me like a whisper, and it felt so strange to walk shoulder to shoulder with an elven man at my right. Solas seemed to always tower at my left, and if I really let myself think about it that explained everything. _How long could it take to look at a mark on my hand?_ I’d asked him once. _Longer than you might think…_

I was a mystery, after all, and Solas a collector of the arcane.

Catching sight of Inquisition banners fluttering between the branches was nothing compared to the jagged sail of a dozen aravels— I was home at last, returned to a place where I’d already said my goodbyes. I supposed it a twisted gift from the Anchor: in another world, I’d have died at the conclave. In another world, I’d have some Keeper’s heir in my arms. In another world…

As we approached, Deshanna and Fennehn walked out to wait for us in between statues of Fen’Harel. A redheaded girl leaned casually against the Wolf with one hand resting on his muzzle, watching intently from behind the fiery mark of the Hearthkeeper fresh and raw across her face. It took just a moment for the realization to hit. Gods, it was Adahlen.

It was all I could do not to run and scoop her up. She’d cried so hard when I left, she’d thought it was all her fault, she’d called fire that I’d had to smother in my palm. Now she belonged to Sylaise, a member of the clan in full, while I returned a barefaced and belonging to none.

Ma’sa may not have been a mage, but he had the good sense to stop well before we reached The Trickster’s shadow. He straightened his shoulders with the authority of a Hunter escorting an honored guest.

“Keeper Istimaethoriel,” Jovan called out, “allow me to present Her Worship, the Herald of Andraste.”

Fennehn twitched back a smirk, tucking a strand of silver-blond hair behind the point of one ear and relaxing his posture in defiance to shemlen titles and shemlen gods. I’d done everything I could to ease his transition, but something anxious stirred within me to see him raised as First.

“Souveri'alas,” said Deshanna even as Fennehn chuckled, “lethallan.”

“I thank you, Keeper, and stand before you as leader of the Inquisition, humbly requesting the formal blessing of the Dalish.”

“For gods’ sake, ma’sa,” Jovan muttered, “I said the thing, don’t go full shem on me.”

He was fucking brilliant, though, letting his brashness provoke Deshanna’s grace. She thrummed her fingers along the ironbark of her stave then tipped it in my direction.

“Andaran atishan, Inquisitor Lavellan. May the Dread Wolf never hear your footsteps.”

I felt a subtle shift in the veil, her magic aligning mine to the wards set around Fen’Harel. Morrigan mocked the practice of spirit-warding as a superstition, but she’d clearly never wandered into a Dalish camp uninvited. Of course, Deshanna knew in an instant that something was wrong because there shouldn’t have been _any_ shift, vallaslin resonate in the key of the ward. A furrow bunched the lilac threads of Ghilan'nain against the darkness of her brow, but the years of trust between us forced a wary smile.

“Garas, da’len.”

“Ma serannas.”

I glanced to Jovan, unsure. “Keeper, Rialas is souveri indeed. Spare a moment for healing before the clan tears her apart with kisses and questions?”

She took his meaning well enough and gestured vaguely toward an aravel in the distance. It broke my heart to pass by Adahlen without being able to share a smile or a wink of reassurance, but there was nothing I could do. The hood had to remain, and every moment that I tarried was a moment the situation might slip from my control.

In the confines of Deshanna’s aravel I told her and Fennehn the story as I’d told Jovan before, not as a dead-end confession but a foundation for the rest: the Breach, Corypheus, the Eluvians, the Crossroads, Mythal’s Temple, the elvhen who hate us. I explained everything but Solas, everything but slavery. We talked well into the night, none of it easy. My Keeper had so many questions that I’d never thought to ask, and it shamed me to return from the Arbor Wilds barefaced and empty handed.

Well.

The mark of my absent god was cold comfort against the severity of her disappointment. I might have found a lie to save face despite the loss of my vallaslin, but nothing could excuse Morrigan drinking from the Well of Sorrows. It offered wisdom and knowledge and insight from Mythal’s most honored servants distilled through millennia in secret, an enansal The People had never dreamed of.

I let it go.

Long after the tale was told, Fennehn glared at the wood slats beneath our feet, unblinking. His thin lipped silence reminded me of Cullen on our last night in Haven.

“It should've been me, Keeper.”

“I agree, lethallin.”

"The both of you,” she said sternly, a familiar warning. 

It remained a bitter point between the two of us and Deshanna. Fennehn was four years hahren and a hunter in full before his magic manifested, only brought to Lavellan as Second three years back. He was ill-suited to quiet routines of a Keeper and would have gladly gone to the conclave while I would have gladly stayed, but Deshanna believed taking Adahlen as Second would create an imbalance with the clan.

Some Dalish were willing to risk it, but we shared a grandfather with Deshanna and she would not to reduce our mages to a single bloodline. Not while Fennehn promised diversity. Whatever his inexperience for the time being, whatever his restlessness, he ensured the clan would not lack for mageblooded children. That meant either Adahlen or I had to go, so I'd invoked Vir Sulevanin and agreed to be Deshanna's spy in exchange for my sister's place as Second.

“Da’len, I grieve that you have been apart from a clan for so long. You bear burdens for The People in one hand and shemlen in the other, gods both real and imagined pressing in on all sides. But you have no Keeper, you have no First, and there lies the madness of He Who Hunts Alone.”

I clenched my jaw; with a spark of divine magic in my palm it didn’t feel like a metaphor. She took my left hand in hers, a pulse of healing magic soothing over me, but Fennehn wasn’t the only one aware of the metaphor and more focused on felt.

“What if it is?” he asked, stirring a cold knot in my heart. “I can think of only one Creator not sealed in the Beyond.”

“Do you think that has not occurred to me, Fennehn?” I said. Of course it had from the start, but I never let myself dwell on it.

“If we spoke of casting bets,” ‘Shanna said firmly, “I would not wager on an outnumbered dog.”

“And which other god would lick the blood from her face?”

The slap was instinctive, defensive, and only barely suppressed; “Tread carefully, First.”

“The both of you,” Deshanna repeated, intolerant of how swiftly we strayed from our measured tones. "Grind Fear beneath your heel, lethallin."

“Ir abelas, Keeper,” he said, perhaps even sincerely.

“Da’len," she turned her brown eyes on me once more, "Do not mistake your brother's fear for an accusation. We can only wait and hope this relic is one day recovered for The People that we may all know which god to praise for healing the sky.”

It was the most generous thing any Keeper could have said under the circumstances, but I did not fail to notice that her eyes flickered to the naked finger of my left hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> However obvious it is to the player, I don't think Lavellan would ever see anything suspicious about between Solas' fixation with the Anchor. It's of extreme historical/cultural/spiritual/magical significance as well as the literal Key to Salvation for all of Thedas- it would be more worrisome if a mage/scholar like Solas didn't take an extreme interest in it. 
> 
> In honor of Fen'Harel, I gotta shout out to Deedy Loves Cake for this glorious rendition of [Uhmm...](http://deedylovescake.tumblr.com/post/112929942134/this-dumb-thing-was-stuck-in-my-head-and-i) Rial and the Wolf based on [Texts from Solas.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3219530/chapters/7645139) It took me by surprise and made me laugh SO FREAKING HARD. Thanks, lady!


	70. Band of Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've been a little obsessed with the fact that there are only three mages in any given clan, because that means Rial has only ever known two other mages in her life, plus the occasional apostate stopping by. If you really let that sink in, it adds a whole new shade of meaning to any Lavellan's experience (and naivety) regarding Solas.

It actually came as a relief when Deshanna finally traced her fingertip along the Faded scar in my palm. After Solas, after Dorian, after Fiona, after Vivienne, after Hawke, after Hawen…sitting still to let a mage test the Anchor had become a familiar routine. Far more familiar than my Keeper's quiet disappointment.

Besides, it would take more than the thread of tension between us, the fear of Wycome, the anxiety of the rifts, and mutual exhaustion for two Dalish mages to abandon a chance to examine a Creator's magic.

To make the most of the aravel’s narrow confines, Fennehn reclined into the bow with his legs bent to make a space for me to recline against him in turn, with Deshanna kneeling at my feet. It was a familiar configuration for any Keeper and First; I’d sat in Fennehn’s place any number of times, holding a wounded hunter in my arms while our Keeper worked healing magic into broken bones.

Sitting like that between them, I couldn’t help but think they saw something broken in me as well.

We’d been a triad once, the mages of Lavellan, and I hadn’t realized how badly I’d missed even Fennehn. For all his black humor and cynicism, he was fiercely loyal to our clan and a Keeper who’d take a Second so rough around the edges. While human nobles joked about "the heir and the spare" in lines of succession, the Dalish valued each Second because Sylaise taught us to weave. Twining his nature into ours brought balance, forcing me and Deshanna from our introspection because Fennehn was as quick to speak as we were to listen, as likely to act as we were to wait.

I should have gone from the conclave to braid my magic with another clan, but I'd been unbound by the Breach. Looking back, it seemed inevitable that Solas and Dorian would become my closest friends, my own grasping way to complete the band of three. But my lovely Tevinter was no more a Second than he was an elf, and that left me tangled up and twisted with a man who'd never meant to be my Keeper.

Without him, I was no stronger than a single cord; what Deshanna would call a noose. Forgetting the absolute ache of missing _him_ (whoever he was (the idea of him (the illusion of belonging (the shimmering thread than ran between us (vhenan))))), his loss left a gaping hole in my defense. Not metaphorically, but actually. As I’d done with Deshanna and Fennehn, I’d refrained from studying the same magic as Solas so that we’d have a broader range together.

I had no defense beyond my barrier, knew nothing of force magic, nothing of the rift. I could cast frost runes and step through the fade, but that was the extent of our overlap. Necromancy had become such an obsession that I had no other spirit magic at all. I couldn’t even heal myself. Why would I ever need to? Solas took care of me even before I knew his name.

Now my magic ran wildly out of balance. Dorian and I brought so many doubled spells to battle we danced like two left feet, and I could find no rhythm with the strangely clinical aggression Vivienne brought to bear. Even if I retrained, my magic would never resonate with theirs as it did with vhenan, not because we were elves, but because we were apostates. Magic came to us intuitively, our spells weren’t scripts but conversations. Once, Solas said that casting together was natural as breathing, and it had been. It had been so, so good.

Until he'd left me gasping in Crestwood, anyway.

“How is Adahlen?” I asked, desperate for anything that wouldn't feel like drowning.

“A hellion,” Deshanna chuckled, still probing at the Anchor with a tendril of magic. “Petulant at first, then wild in her grief after the explosion. But once we heard of your survival? All pride and determination.”

Fennehn shook with a silent laugh and Deshanna looked over my shoulder to glare and smirk at him all at once.

“When the shemlen named you Herald, she developed something of a…fixation with Andraste.”

“Oh, gods, no.”

True laugher rumbled against my back. “Just her pyre.”

“Sylaise indeed.”

“Very nearly Andruil, though. She continues to hunt with Jhodas. Fennehn advised that we see where the Vir Tanadhal might take a mage, and I am inclined to trust his judgement in this.”

Already the flavor of magic in clan Lavellan was changing. My abilities surfaced when I was six, I remembered almost nothing of the time before. But Adahlen was thirteen and a hunter’s apprentice when her talent came. For her it was a gift, something added to who she was rather than inherent to it. Someday, Fennehn and Adahlen would defend the clan with swords of ice and arrows of flame— a far cry from Deshanna’s runes and the soft sparks that once danced from my staff.

But if she wanted Lavellan's mages better suited for battle, she would not be disappointed. My magic was nothing if not wildly destructive. 

“Take me to the rifts in the morning, and I'll show you the full extent of the Anchor’s power.”

“Da’len,” Deshanna said carefully, gently, “until you kneel before the god who granted it, you cannot possibly know the full extent of this borrowed blessing.”

As vicious wave of possessiveness rose up in me and the Anchor brightened in my palm. It was mine— no more separate than my heart from my chest. My fingers curled involuntarily, as if I could hang on to it by greed and stop a god from reclaiming the power I'd stolen with a touch. I wanted to feel the Mark burning in the Rift, some small assurance that the Anchor could not be stripped away as easily as my vallaslin.

Instead, I forced my eyes closed to bow my head in agreement. "Of course, Keeper."

There was something of a commotion outside the aravel, and in the next instant Jovan ducked his head through the flap of leather at the door. His eyes met mine and I knew there was human in the camp before he even said the words.

“Your spy has returned.”

Outside, the air was biting cold and the moonless sky thick with clouds that would surely bring snow. A slim man stood by a campfire, his ragged cloak barely disguising the livery of a squire. At my approach, he dropped to one knee, prompting a sidelong glance from Fennehn. I was, perhaps, the only Dalish accustomed to humans bowing at my feet. Well, voluntarily, anyway.

“Your Worship,” he said.

“Jester, I take it?”

He stood and gave a curt nod to me and then Deshanna, but his dark eyes betrayed none of the mirth his title suggested.

“A disease sweeps through Wycome and, as the elves remain unaffected, the nobles have dubbed it the ‘knife-eared plague,’” he grimaced in distaste. “It seems that even Duke Antoine is not willing to incite violence within the alienage after the disaster in Halamshiral, and has chosen a Dalish scapegoat lest the nobility think him idle.”

“If it’s a knife-eared plague they want,” Jovan’s fingers twitched for want of daggers.

Jester shook his head almost imperceptibly, “I advise against direct action, Inquisitor. The elves in the alienage might as well be hostages. Should the situation deteriorate, they will be the first to fall.”

“The flat-ears chose to live under shem rule, it’s of no consequence to me that they chose poorly.”

“That would be a disaster, Jovan,” I said before turning back to Jester. “Something else is going on. I need more information.”

“If you want more information, we need only the Duke’s address. We roll over now and every noble Marcher will make sport of the Dalish.”

“No,” said Deshanna. “We have much to gain if the 'Inquisitor' resolves this.”

“Do we?" Fennehn cut in. "Everything she's gained falls to human hands.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose, tuning him out to focus on recalling the name of a face...a mask that Josephine introduced at the Winter Palace. Blue like the ocean, tipped in silverite. An Orlesian living in the Free Marches and a distant cousin to Gaspard. 

“Guinevere,” I said to everyone’s confusion. “Do you know a Lady Guinevere?” 

Jester was quick to follow my meaning, “The wife of Lord Volant, in Bastion”

“Go to her as an agent of Ambassador Montilyet and ask if she wouldn’t mind playing The Game for Josephine. If she presents herself as a relative of the Emperor who bristles under an elven thumb, Duke Antoine may speak carelessly. Assure Lady Guinevere that Josie would be ever so grateful.”

I twisted an Inquisition signet ring from my finger and gave it to Jester so that he might have some token of proof, though I imagined any spy of the Nightingale sufficiently skilled to pull off the deception empty handed.

“Your Worship.”

He took the ring and bowed, tugging up his hood to all but disappear the moment he stepped from the firelight. Sufficiently skilled indeed. I turned to where Fennehn and Jovan stood on either side of Deshanna, each looking cross in his own way and my Keeper as silent and watchful as ever.

“Ir abelas, lethallin. I know you both want the Duke’s head, and I will give it, but not until I’ve emptied out its secrets. This plague worries me.”

“Of course the shem plague worries you,” said Fennehn, free to swear now that Jester had gone. “It might threaten your lover, no?”

I could almost always count on rumors about my relationship with Dorian for a laugh, but I’d never considered them reaching so far. Unfortunately, explaining that a Tevinter was my closest friend wouldn’t exactly set him at ease.

“I don’t know why you pay any attention to human gossip, Fennehn.”

The lines of his vallaslin bunched. “I pay attention to the Dalish, perhaps you should do the same. The clans in Orlais tell of an alliance bought from the Emperor with a kiss. Are we to believe that’s all it took?”

At that, I did laugh. “Do you really think a power hungry noble sees anything in me but the Inquisition’s might? Hate shem politics all you like, but if the Lords of Orlais could be swayed by elven whores we’d have rebuilt Arlathan by now.”

He worried a thumb across the grey pads of his fingertips, calming the itch for a spell.

“We hear many rumors about the Dalish Inquisitor, Rialas, and they have been easily dismiss until now. You have come back to us a stranger— our people are dead, your own uncle among them, and a shem lord has driven us into the woods. This isn’t a problem your pretty shemlen pets will solve over tea. Wake up, lethallan.”

“I sent her away as a spy, Fennehn, do not blame her for returning as such,” said Deshanna. “Her Inquisition has enjoyed only success, she will not fail us.”

“Has she not already?”

“Watch yourself, First,” said ma’sa, not knowing that I’d already lost the high ground.

“Watch _yourself,_ Hunter. Our lethallan walked the Vir Abelasan and gave Mythal’s boon to a shem.”

“What?” Jovan rounded on me, eyes narrowed at the implication even if he didn’t understand the reference. “Is that true?”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It is for a Dalish First,” Fennehn shouted, “Why would you not submit to the will of Mythal?”

The answer was unspeakable: Solas.

I stood in silence a moment too long, then spilled out a tumble of pale truths that played no role in my decision.

“The elvhen guarding the Well advised against it, my companions advised against it, and our enemy was nearly on us. Everything happened so fast, and I feared a conflict with the Anchor’s magic. I made the wrong choice. Emma ir abelas, there is nothing else I can say.”

“I watched you for three years,” said Fennehn. “We disagree in many things, but never in our devotion to the Creators or The People. Your err always, obnoxiously, on the side of duty. I dread what burns in your palm if you felt its power would conflict with the All Mother.”

His word choice was lost on no one, but I couldn't defend myself without making it worse. I regretted giving up the peace I'd found in the Well of Sorrows as sharply as the loss of my vallaslin. Yet in some sick way, it was a comfort to know my lethallin required a power as great as Fen’Harel to believe that I would abandon Mythal. Elvhen or no, it was so much worse that I’d simply done it for a man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, well then. Seventy chapters. I'm just...wow. You guys are amazing for putting up with me this long. Apologies for not capitalizing on Ch 69 with something, um, celebratory. XD
> 
> **edited to say: yes, Rial's uber-parenthetical rumination on Solas is a nod to[The Lord of Tricksters](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3507539/chapters/7710089).**


	71. The Dread Wolf's Bitch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exploring the ways in which Rial does and doesn't belong in the world around her, and how she's learning to shape the way others see her.

Fearful that Fennehn would suggest it first, I’d left without another word and not even Jovan tried to stop me.

The whole clan would have heard the exchange. It might be one of those Things of Which We Would Not Speak, but only round ears would have been deaf to it. I’d have to find the Inquisition camp and wait it out, give Deshanna time to consider the sum of what I’d told her and either rally Lavellan or turn them against me.

Not that it mattered.

I’d abandoned the Dalish in Crestwood, and whatever decision our Keeper reached about the Well of Sorrows would be far more generous than the one I deserved. Besides, if I wanted my clan's love I could have told an endless string of lies to secure it. What I wanted was their safety, and I didn’t care if they hated me so long as I could seal the rifts and deal with the Duke.

Whatever else she thought of me, Deshanna would leave those tasks to me. It was her way.

It had begun to snow by the time I put the aravels behind me, and the cold night air delivered the clumsy sounds of a human encampment no more than a half-mile out. Though I didn’t need its light for guidance, I let the Anchor flare so the scouts would recognize me; this far north I couldn’t count on familiar faces. If that drew the attention of some enemy from Wycome, so be it— I was dying to kill someone.

But no trouble came to meet me in the woods, and soon enough I found an Inquisition camp like any other: a scattering of red tents, a few tables set up for supplies and requisitions, and a handful of soldiers milling about in the light of a half-banked fire. With the Anchor engulfing my forearm, there wasn’t a one among them who hadn’t jumped to attention long before I offered a formal greeting.

“Andaran atish’an,” I called out, because with or without my vallaslin I was supposed to be the Dalish Inquisitor.

Every last one of them was human, but a ripple of welcome swept through their ranks, salutes and nods and murmurs of _your worship._ However shakey my concept of trust, I understood the power of mutual self-interest; I needed troops, they needed the world back, and so long as I had the Anchor in one hand and gold in the other, we were good.

I drank an ale with them because that’s the sort of thing the Inquisitor did, and caught up with news on Venatori movements in the Western Approach, as well the continued stalemate in Kirkwall between Prince Vael’s forces and the City Guard. I had Leliana’s spies on the outside and Varric’s friends within, both praying that the little Prince would follow in the Maker’s footsteps, take a bride and disappear.

When I’d made a decent enough show of being a proper leader, I gave my goodnights and gathered up a few potions from the requisitions officer, who was quick to offer me a tent and profuse in his apologies.

“Weren’t expectin’ you, Worship. Ain’t much, but can fetch some more blankets and such. Furs?”

“No, standard issue’s fine. Thank you.”

Inside the tent, I dusted the snow from my cloak and crouched to sink my magic into the earth, burying a fire rune deep below. It was a candlemark before the cold ground began to warm, and in the meantime I drank two restoratives for my supper. A bit of firelight seeped through the heavy canvas, but not so much that I worried about catching sight of myself, so I stripped out of my new leathers.

Not that it mattered.

My bare skin reminded me of his magic, but avoiding it acknowledged the power he held even in absentia. It seemed so calculated, and that was something about him I’d never understand. It wasn’t enough to simply be rid of me, he’d found a way to ensure my own body would serve as a reminder, and he’d found a way to make me ask for it first. He’d always made me ask for it first, every gods damned step of the way. 

Even if he’d told the truth about my vallaslin, _ar lasa mala revas_ was a joke. I’d never be free to find a clan, I’d never be free from The Game or the god whose orb created the Anchor— a thought that put ice in my veins.

So much of my time in Haven was spent denying Andraste’s touch that by the I learned the orb belonged to a god, the implication had lost all meaning. I tried to think of the Anchor’s power only in the abstract, but Fennehn’s words had given my fears a shape and a name and I couldn’t escape his logic.

Corypheus respected neither the Old Gods of Tevinter nor the Maker, yet he turned to the power of an elven god to Breach the veil and enter the Fade— it took little imagination to guess he’d have sought help from the Roamer of the Beyond. When Corypheus came for me in Haven, I’d been helpless to stop him from wrenching my arm out of socket, from crushing my wrist, from breaking my ribs against the trebuchet.

If that’s what a human pretender could do, what hope did I have against a true god?

“Wow, your shemlen really don’t get the point of perimeter defense,” said a voice out of nowhere, but not even the razor edge on my throat could distract me from who it belonged to, and I curbed my instinct for lightning even as a drop of blood sang out to me. A spell dissolved on my skin half-cast, unspent magic dissipating into indigo sparks that illuminated the tent for an instant.

The split mask of Jovan’s face was upside down and grinning where he was crouched above and behind me.

“You’re fucking insane, I almost killed you!”

He let out a dismissive puff of air, sheathing his dagger, “You’d never hurt me.”

“Ar lath ma, you ass, not on purpose!”

“Everything you do is on purpose.”

He leaned down to lick my neck, and the song died; his tongue was coated in vandal aria. Jovan tumbled across me, rolling himself to the side and propping up on one elbow. His dark hair was unbound, falling lank behind him, and he brushed the back of his knuckles along my hipbone.

“Like you’d fuck a shem,” he said, as if that had been the most damning accusation I’d faced all night.

There was laughter, somewhere, in the back of my throat like a cough. 

“Though I wonder,” he said in a low voice, sliding his hand down to my stomach, “when was the last time you got some Dalish cock?”

That earned a burst of real laughter, “You were there, as I recall.”

“No wonder you’re such a sullen mess. I thought you kept a whole clan in that castle.”

“Ah, yes, my harem.”

“If it's not true, don’t ruin it for me. That one was my favorite.”

“I bet it was, lech,” I smirked at him through the darkness.

“So slumming it, then?”

“Apparently.”

“Better a few flat-ears than the corpse orgies I keep hearing about.”

I groaned at the memory; even Blackwall had confronted me about that one. Something about the word _necromancy_ gave everyone the wrong idea. I found his hand and laced my fingers with his, absently rubbing my palm against his callouses.

“So you’ve become a connoisseur of rumors, then?”

“You know Deshanna keeps me hunting far beyond the woods.”

“You’re hunting for her now.”

“No, ma’sa, I’m hunting for you. I can’t say why your story’s shit, only that if the truth was on your side you’d be solas with your people instead of hiding with the shemlen.”

For a single moment, I thought he somehow knew. In the next, I breathed deep and reminded myself hahren did not have sole dominion over the word.

“I made a mistake at the Well of Sorrows, there’s nothing to be proud of.”

“You don’t make mistakes, Souveri'alas, you make decisions and you own them. Walk me through it.”

“I didn’t have time to think about it, I was afraid and I fucked up, it’s that simple.”

“Two minutes ago, I bet my life that you wouldn’t fuck up under pressure. Between one heartbeat and the next you recognized me, decided that a knife at your throat somehow meant _ar lath ma_ , and bit back lightning. That’s fucking complicated. You’re not capable of simple mistakes.”

“You give me too much credit, ma’sa." 

“And you’re not giving me enough. You know something we don’t, and it’s the reason you stood there gnawing on your own tongue while Fennehn all but called you the Dread Wolf’s bitch.” 

A wave of nausea pushed me upright. “Maybe I am.” 

He scratched the back of his head and huffed out an exasperated sigh. 

“Aye, maybe you’re the felas fucking assan. Hahren died in Arlathan, mamae died in the Dales, and you fell out of the sky to save da’len from the beast. A god’s a god, after two thousand years of silence I’ll take what I can get. It’s not my job to fret about the Creators, it’s my job to protect the clan." 

“The clan’s in no danger from me.” 

“I’m _talking_ about you,” he laid one warm hand on my back, “I’d be a shit hunter if I didn’t know what a scared rabbit looks like.” 

I nearly laughed; it had been forever since anyone called me a rabbit without intending a slur. But he’d caught me, and there was no running. If I kept evading him, he’d only imagine something worse. Perhaps I couldn’t give him everything, but I could give him enough; he deserved it, even if he hated me for it. 

I eased back down, twisting on my side to mirror him in the dark, trying to think how I could ever explain a man like Solas who defied explanation. 

“A mage saved my life after the conclave," I started. "I was imprisoned for trial and the shemlen would have executed me, but he convinced them I could close the rifts. He taught me how and helped me strengthen the veil to prevent new rifts from forming. Not only that, he took charge of the rebel mages so I could draw on their mana to seal the Breach.” 

“This is your flat-eared mystic?” 

“Not mine,” I clarified, suddenly jealous of the girl in the rumors who still had him, “But yes. Though the shemlen would never admit it, there’d be no Inquisition without him. The Anchor would have killed me, but he stabilized it. And when Haven was destroyed, he led us to Tarasyl'an Te'las.” 

_He led me. He died for me, he loved me, he called me vhenan. He was mine._

“No one in the Inquisition knows this,” I said, dropping my voice low. “They absolutely cannot know, alright?” 

“Savvy.” 

“He confessed that he was elvhen in the Arbor Wilds. Not to me, but to Mythal’s sentinel, Abelas, and that’s the only reason the Well was not destroyed. Then he—” 

“Destroyed?” 

“Abelas said he would rather destroy the Well than bestow it upon the undeserving. They’re not like us. We’re the shemlen so far as they’re concerned, shadows of a fallen empire. My companion convinced him otherwise, then begged me not to drink. He’s pride incarnate, not a man to beg, but he did. Hands and knees, Jovan, a living, breathing elvhen begging _me._ So I let it go.” 

Jovan laughed softly, “I knew you couldn’t make a simple gods damned mistake, Rialas, but fuck.” 

“Yeah.” 

“You have to tell Deshanna.” 

“I don’t have any proof!” 

“Since when have you ever had to prove anything?” 

I opened my mouth and then shut it again. 

From the moment I woke with the Anchor, I’d stepped into a world that hated everything about me. Every day was spent proving to Cassandra that a pagan could be trusted, proving to Solas that a Dalish could be trusted, proving to Sera that a mage could be trusted, proving to Vivienne that an apostate could be trusted, proving to Gaspard that an elf could be trusted, proving to Blackwall that my forgiveness could be trusted, proving to Abelas that a shadow could be trusted, proving to the world that I wasn’t a savage, a servant, or a whore. 

I’d completely forgotten the place where I had nothing to prove, The People who trusted me inherently. 

It was muscle memory that brought my forehead to his, a chaste kiss in thanks of the reminder, but his reply was nothing of the sort. Jovan stroked the flat of his tongue across my lips, coaxing a flood of memories to the surface: the summer we bonded, the spring when we broke apart, years of affectionate indifference, that night with Cailon in the Tirashan ruins, a thousand sleepy winter nights, and a goodbye on the Amaranthine coast. 

He'd laid a hand on my cheek and I turned to take his thumb in my mouth, giving him one slow suck and savoring the roughness of his skin. Jovan tasted of leather and blood, like a man who’d killed something recently, like a man who’d never washed with shemlen soap, like the earth and not the Beyond. So strange and familiar all at once, a song that I’d nearly forgotten. Ma’sa. 

He pulled his thumb free and dragged its slickness along my jaw before kissing me hard on the mouth. His lips felt fuller and rougher than those I’d grown accustomed to, greedier. Sloppier. I’d forgotten what it was like to be kissed by someone who had nothing to hide, and it was a drink of cold water after nothing but wine. I surged forward to roll atop him, cupping his face in my hands and desperate to swallow up everything he was. 

“Fenedhis,” he swore when I pulled back. “When was the last time someone touched you?” 

"I can’t even remember,” I breathed, tightening my thighs around his narrow hips. 

It had been in an Inquisition tent just like this. In the Arbor Wilds, when I was still Dalish, exactly eighteen days before. 

Even as I started to lift the hem of his jerkin, he tossed up his arms so that I could pull it off over his head. I shifted back in his lap, raking my fingers along the hard lines that sculpted his chest, the perfect knots of muscle at his stomach, and the out-turned button of his navel. 

His body felt so different, slimmer, bonier— gods, we were always almost starving, every day ending with just enough and never too much. No cakes or tarts or butter or cookies or anything richer than a sip of warm halla milk. 

Jovan was finding the differences in me too, cupping my breasts in both hands to weigh them against his memory, pushing them together and burying his face in between, so damned boyish and gleeful about it. He gently bit at the flesh of each one, and I fisted up his hair, remembering what it was like to have something to hold, and just _holding._

He caught one nipple in his mouth, and even in the dim light I could see the sharp contrast of my ashen skin against the cobalt of his lips— a slave brand. My breath caught and I wondered: was that what Solas thought every time? 

My stomach twisted: had that been the allure? 

He groaned into my breast, making me suddenly aware of how tightly I’d wound his hair around my hand. I loosened my grip and brought his face up to mine, kissing and licking and biting every place where his blood whispered with Deshanna’s magic, knowing in my _bones_ that Jovan was free. 

We moved together as easily as we ever had, hands and lips seeking out the angles of familiar faces, fingertips lingering on new scars in old places. Somewhere along the way he’d lost his breeches, one of those roguish traits that I’d forgotten, and I reached down between us to stroke him, remembering the way he curved into my palm. 

The world tipped over as he snaked an arm around my waist to throw his weight and put me beneath him. His moved down my body, sliding his tongue along every curving branch of the vallaslin I wore only in his memory. It meant everything to know ma’sa was the first to claim the bare skin I’d been given, that Solas had never seen. 

Gods, Solas. 

For an instant, I was back in the Arbor Wilds, my mouth crushed against his neck to keep silent despite an unrelenting pace that drove the air from my lungs. His name had been a chant then, an earnest prayer to the only one who mattered: _Solas, Solas, ar lath ma, Solas._ But he’d no appetite for my sincerity, only blasphemy, _That’s not how you said it._

Now it was Jovan’s cock pressed against my thigh and his mouth leaving welts on my neck, but I was seventeen hundred and thirty four miles away, panting _Fen’Harel_ in the darkness. He poured magic into me until the ecstasy was unbearable and my fingers slipped from his sweaty shoulders, tearing down his back. I cried out as I came, _oh, my god, Fen’Harel,_ and he'd come so savagely, growling my name from the back of his throat. 

The Anchor flared at the memory, and Jovan startled back at the unexpected light. 

“It’s alright,” I said, hooking my ankles behind his thighs. “It does that, sometimes.” 

I reached for him with my left hand and he tensed; I’d never used my magic with him before, never even thought to until Solas. For the first time, I realized how the raw power of it would unnerve anyone but a mage. 

“What do you mean, sometimes?" 

I grinned up at him, biting my lip, then pushed him onto his back. Propped up on my knees, I hovered over him for a second before easing down onto his cock. He hissed a breath and I hummed in an echo of his pleasure but not my own. The world felt dull and distant. 

My mana stirred restless and unspent, eager to surge and fill something that did not exist within him. I banished it from my mind and forced myself to live in my skin, focusing on the world around me instead of the one within. Jovan bent his legs so I could lay back against his thighs, rogue’s fingers working to undo me, gently pinching my clit until my pulse throbbed against him. 

Not that it mattered. I couldn’t quell the Anchor and its light filled the tent, driving away my focus. I felt exposed, barefaced and embarrassed. I lowered myself against his chest so I could bury my hand under the pillow at his head, and he shifted his hands to my hips, fingers teasing along the curve of my ass. 

In the darkness once more, I found a languid rhythm, but it felt like a song I didn’t quite remember and I was always a step behind. 

My thoughts kept circling back to the elvhen blood under my fingernails and how Solas had stayed inside me for hours, the both of us slipping in and out of the Fade. The air was so thick with magic in the Arbor Wilds I couldn’t quite remember which side of the veil I’d been on when he’d whispered, _ar lath ma bellanaris, ma’Rial._

So then if he was the liar, why did I feel like the one betraying _him_? 

Jovan was silent beneath me, a master of stealthy sex in the middle of a camp, but my ears were bent to pick up the sound of Solas that last time and how smug I’d felt thinking the whole camp must have heard his feral release. Gods, they’d all known that he’d taken me. And that was the blinding white thought in the heart of me when I came around another man’s cock. 

Jovan must have been holding back because he suddenly pressed his forehead into my neck and bucked forward to shudder out, “Souveri’alas.” 

Absently, I realized Solas had never asked my full name and I’d never thought to tell him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I disappear for a week and soooo many people thought the story was over?!? NOT A CHANCE. You can pry Solas out of my cold, dead fingers. XD Thanks for hanging tight through so many chapters, so much angst, and so many dubious situations with me.
> 
> Deedy Loves Cake doodled up so many wonderful things between the last chapter and now. Remember when Rial tried to jump Solas in [Chapter 35?](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2760119/chapters/6806375) Well, now you can have [a very NSFW version.](http://deedylovescake.tumblr.com/post/114158205329/hey-so-i-redrew-that-thing-from-last-night-because)
> 
> Also, she did a [pre-break up portrait of Rial](http://deedylovescake.tumblr.com/post/113746770279/crawls-out-of-dumpster-i-drew-a-thing-crawls) and a [post-break up portrait,](http://deedylovescake.tumblr.com/post/113483349824/im-trash-for-other-peoples-inquisitors-tonight%22) sooooo many feels about both, particularly Imshael's feather.
> 
> And if you read Texts from Solas, Maizzy sketched a scene based on [Chapter 6,](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3219530/chapters/7676486) in when Fen'Harel sends Abelas a [Fruit Basket.](http://afterinquisition.tumblr.com/post/113678116507/doodled-something-vaguely-from-texts-from-solas-by)


	72. Cold Comfort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I really like the idea that Rial just assumes Solas knows that she knows....

In the morning, Jovan was gone.

There was no universe in which a Dalish hunter would abide to sleep in a shemlen camp so poorly defended, and no doubt a half-dozen other duties or da’len pulled him home. Which was all well and good; early mornings weren’t exactly my best time anymore. I mopped the clammy sweat off my skin with a corner of the blanket and found a vial of lyrium tucked into my discarded cloak— cold comfort after another exhausting night in the Beyond.

 _Sweet girl,_ Desire had purred. _Would you like to know how many women he’s called vhenan?_

The lesser demons who’d promise the warmth of his touch had abandoned me somewhere along the Waking Sea. The ones that remained were of a more clever sort, offering knowledge. These wore at my resolve, for demons always kept their promise. Some questions hardly seemed worth risking possession, but others…

 _If he branded his own slaves,_ said Sloth, _which god do you suppose he honored?_

Others tempted me. There were so many questions I’d chosen not to ask. Ever since Adamant, I’d only wanted Solas to know that his past was his own and if he needed a new beginning, I’d gladly give it. I’d proved as much with an unconditional pardon for Thom Rainier, declared it whenever I spoke the name _Blackwall._ And hadn’t that day changed everything?

 _He never asked your true name,_ Despair wailed, _shall I tell you his?_

I could take a demon in single combat, even one so strong as Despair. But if I slipped, if I faltered, if I failed… Besides, I couldn’t remember the last time any gamble of mine had paid off. Fighting that urge, my desperate wish for any piece of the truth, drained my mana to leave me trembling and weak on waking.

Every morning.

Wondering.

I unstopped the cork and it was done, another day begun with fevered brightness in my veins. The feeling was at odds with the gorgeous hush that had fallen over the woods when I stepped out from my tent. The world had gone white with snow, and I could just make out the soft sound of ice floes moving along the Minanter tributary beyond the row of cedars to the North.

Gods, winter was pristine in the Marches. Not like the blighted Emprise, aglow with red lyrium and infested with dragons, statues of Fen’Harel glowering around every bend. No, this part of the world had few elven relics about, and for once I was grateful. Fennehn’s words still rang in my ears.

Two women glanced up from sharpening their blades by the fire, murmured their greetings to suit the morning’s quiet. The mess officer had a warm bowl of potato hash for me, and it was sort of wonderful in its blandness, the first real food I’d bothered with in days. I took my time, scraping the wooden spoon around the carved corners of the bowl, in no rush to return to Lavellan.

Jovan had at least agreed with me that we couldn’t tell Deshanna the full truth. If she knew an elvhen lived in Skyhold, nothing would stop her from traveling to see him. Of course, ma’sa thought that was exactly what the whole fucking clan should do (gods, I remembered the wild devotion that sprang up when I’d first met Abelas), but I’d been able to impress upon him the precariousness of the situation— Solas hated the Dalish.

What I didn’t say: when I’d finally stumbled into the truth, Solas rained down on me harder than a Templar.

There was no telling how he’d react to an actual confrontation, but we could not afford to lose him. Once Corypheus was dead, there was no one else who could neutralize the orb. If that _thing_ were simply left alive and writhing with divine magic, it would beckon every power hungry magister in Tevinter, every grasping demon in Fade, and, I feared above all else, the god to whom it belonged.

I wanted it contained. I wanted the nightmare to end, I wanted _ar lasa mala revas_ to be true, I wanted to find whatever clan would have me and disappear into the Arbor Wilds. I wanted the truth. Perhaps it was no coincidence that I’d gained so little from elvhen like Pride and Sorrow, but was it too much to hope a Weary elf might find those called Peace and Joy?

It was worth trying. I was meant to be a Keeper, not left minding Andraste’s flock.

I pitched my little wooden bowl and spoon into a wash-bin and went to raid the potions table, clearing out everything we had and securing each vial in a strip of worn cotton. The requisitions officer’s eyebrows bunched in dismay.

“Your Worship?”

“Head to Wycome and get whatever you need. Not to replenish, but to stockpile. Tonics, lyrium, grenades, all of it. If the Duke sends more bandits, we’re going to need a lot more than this to cover our people and the Dalish.”

“Now, that’s gonna take fifty gold just to—”

“Not your problem,” I slung a leather pouch to the table but bit back the rest; I’d spilled more gold in Halamshiral so Vivienne could dress me like a shemlen whore.

Jovan was right, I didn’t have to justify myself to anyone. I’d spent an obscene amount of coin on every other faction in Thedas, a few potions meant _nothing_ compared to the gold I’d wasted shuffling my troops from one petty land dispute to the next. Solas had me so scared about holding myself above suspicion that I’d done nothing with the Inquisition to better my people and I was fucking over it.

Carefully, I adjusted the heavy bag over my shoulder and left camp without another word. My advisors would have to make due with whatever news Nightingale’s spies brought back to Skyhold, the idea of trying to send a raven drained the life out of me. _Dear Josephine, will be back when the human noble you allied us with stops murdering my people. Hope you find someone to gather the elfroot while I’m gone._

Past the first few trees I snapped up my barrier, then carried on with my staff gripped in one hand and the Anchor blazing in the other. It would really not do for the Inquisitor to blow herself up fending off friendly fire in the woods. No sooner had I left the bounds of human earshot did a familiar voice call out to greet me.

“Aneth ara, Sister.” 

“Sanumin,” I returned, smiling.

I had two sisters, but only one who never said my name. My hood was down, and she’d clearly been warned, because when she stepped into my path she gave no reaction aside from the barest arc of an eyebrow. I could have been her twin, two years younger but born on her nameday, the both of us green-eyed and marked for June to match. San’s vallaslin cut across her cheekbones to the top of her lip, while mine…

Well.

She was dressed in white leathers and wool, auburn hair beneath a slip of snowy silk and a longbow slung over one shoulder. The extra measure to her belt did not escape my notice; she must have been some three months along.

“Over the ocean and back,” she said with a half smile.

“And back,” I marveled.

“Is it always like that?”

I didn’t need to follow her gaze to know she meant the Anchor.

“Only when there’s a colony of bees in my bag.”

“Is that a shemlen metaphor?”

“No,” I chuckled, slipping the bag from my shoulder to fish one out. “I’ve actually got fifteen jars filled with bumblebees and wasps.”

She took the squat bottle gingerly, turning it in the pale morning light. “Asleep!”

“And awfully cranky when you wake them.”

“Just like our ‘Dahlen,” she said, nodding over my shoulder.

It was a pit of dread in my stomach as I turned. Adahlen alone among my siblings had never known me without vallaslin, still at her mother’s breast when I’d taken the rite. But there she was, the little waif, as silent as the rogue we’d all thought she’d be.

Emotions didn’t flash across her features, they sculpted them. Horror breaking to shock that softened to sadness. At the same time, I was seeing her anew. Where Sanumin and I were ashen like our father, Adahlen was pale like her mother in a way that only elves could be pale, almost pearlescent, and Sylaise’s vallaslin were nearly aflame in the cold.

With the color still so angry and her skin welted up and swollen, it was hard not to see what Solas saw: a brand.

“Oh,” I breathed, but if felt like gut-punch, “you’re all grown up.”

She beamed, and gods, I remembered what it felt like to be fourteen so damned proud. If I could take the awful thing that Solas said to the grave, then I would. Didn’t matter if it were true or not; Thedas had enough noble lords shitting on the Dalish without the ghosts of Arlathan joining in.

At last, Adahlen reached out to tentatively touch my face. Her fingers were hot, fire just beneath the skin, and her amber eyes flicked over to Sanumin then back. She thumbed off a tear at my cheek, and it was alright with me if she thought it was pride. Then she slid her little hand down to my neck, digging into a sore spot and grinning with her tongue bit between her teeth.

“Well, you’ve got _some_ Dalish markings at least,” she snorted, and Sanumin's shoulder shook with smothered laughter.

I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that wherever he was, Jovan was grinning like an idiot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope all you lucky ducks on Xbone are having fun with Jaws of Hakkon. Me and all the other PS4 dupes are going to be [hiding in a backpack](http://deedylovescake.tumblr.com/post/114451664544/team-ps4-lavellans-be-like-ill-just-be-in) until someone lets us out.


	73. Just the One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's interesting to me that the War Table mission for Protect Clan Lavellan clearly states that there are rifts in the Free Marches. I'm assuming that so far from the Breach that perhaps they're not so bad, but it's kind of lame that we can't go close them for our clan!

Fennehn came to stand at my side, swearing by Falon’Din.

We’d taken a party of skirmishers out to see what our Keeper had called a Great Evil in the valley, but I found only a rift the shape and size of a small everite deposit. It glitched and shifted a few feet above the glen where a handful of shades drifted aimlessly through the tall grass. I’d seen more demons push through in places where the veil was whole but thin.

I nearly said so, but held my tongue. Without the Anchor, even the smallest rift would spoil the valley. It might only spit out two or three shades at a time, but the supply was infinite and the Dalish were not. As if latching onto my thoughts, Fennehn spoke up softly.

“Arla and Merin died here. Deshanna had sent them out to gather herbs, but we didn’t know about this place. Must've killed a half-dozen demons while our hunters collected the bodies. I very nearly lost Cailon.”

My heart twisted. They were second cousins of mine, too young for vallaslin but children only in the Dalish sense. I’d kept a barrier on Merin once while he went toe to toe with a dwarven bandit, I’d seen Arla land her arrow in a man’s throat during a raid, but their weapons wouldn’t have even pierced the hide of a demon. How long did it take them to realize that? Had they tried to run?

Fennehn laid a hand on my shoulder, and I made no effort to hide my distress. Not simply for the loss of life, but the awful irony of a Creator’s magic returning to the world only to tear holes in the veil and loose demons upon our da’len. I could mend the rift, but the damage was done.

“Cailon?” I inquired.

“Demons kept coming, made for a damned sloppy retreat. Clawed him straight across the back, but he didn’t drop her. Didn’t even stumble. But the wound festered like he'd been bitten by the Wolf, and I can only praise Mythal that demons don’t carry the taint or it would have taken him from me.”

I fixed my eyes on the rift, aghast that such a tiny thing could have brought so much harm to the clan. Cailon was a dear friend and I couldn’t imagine Lavellan’s halla without their herdsman. Couldn’t particularly imagine him with Fennehn either, but evidently that was the case.

“He’s healed up now?”

One side of Fennehn’s mouth tugged up and he nodded. “Asking about you.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That the Creators have set you on a difficult path.”

“All of them, or just the one?”

That he didn’t answer, so I handed him my staff and looked over my shoulder to give Adahlen a wink before walking down into the valley empty handed.

So to speak.

As First, I would have downplayed my own role to strengthen the clan. I’d have thrown down cover with Adahlen for Fennehn to leap into the fray so our warriors could work through their grief and rage. And when everyone had done their part, I’d have quietly sealed the rift and gone to Deshanna for healing that I didn’t need.

But my position within the clan was too precarious for false modesty, and I needed to give Lavellan’s new First a reason to believe that I’d sought only to protect the Anchor at the Well of Sorrows. Somehow, that made it easier; finding little truths that led away from the only one that had mattered at the time: _Ar lath ma, vhenan, I am begging you. Rial!_

The memory burned there a moment, real and solid and true, and then I was sidestepping a shade to Mark the Rift. Cords of magic lashed out like lightning and the demons were blown back into the fade. I threw my left hand into the air to thread the veil through the Anchor and the rift split open, revealing a glimpse of Raw Fade through the narrow slit.

That influx of magic brought a handful of wisps through the rift, twisting them into wraiths. In another moment, it wouldn’t matter, though. I wound the veil around the Anchor and it writhed, jerking and pulsing until the cord snapped back into my palm. Cut from the fade, the remaining demons dissolved as the tear mended itself, and then I was alone.

Walking back up the hill, I had a clear view of my lethallin's surprise, each of them prepared for a battle that never came.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omg, is anyone still reading this??? 
> 
> So I'm going to head canon that lethallin can also be the gender-neutral-plural term for kin.


	74. Betrayal is the Blade Forged in Hate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Real Talk with Keeper Deshanna <3

With all three rifts sealed and daylight fading, we entered the snowy woods.

I’d forgotten how it felt to travel among the Dalish, how silently even our warriors could move. We reserved laughter and conversation for the safety of camp, until then we walked with our ears sharp and weapons drawn. None of us found dareth shiral by luck, no. We forged that path with every careful step.

And so it didn’t matter that our day was done and rest around the corner, Fennehn passed me a lyrium. He must have thought me near exhaustion, I’d spent more magic in one day than he could contain, but I didn’t need it. Not like he thought I did. Even so, I thumbed off the cork and tipped back the vial, feeling awash in a sudden surge of magic.

Behind me, Adahlen watched with curiosity so I tossed her the empty bottle. She caught it left handed and took a cautious whiff, scrunching up her nose at the sharp minerality. Her little pink tongue darted out for a taste, eliciting a Cassandra-like snort from Fennehn. At that age, even a drop would set her whole world glittering and bright.

I laid an index finger across my lips and tapped twice: _don’t tell ‘Shanna._ Adahlen glanced quickly at her First and he gave a resigned shake of his head that sent blond hair falling into his eyes.

“You’re spoiled, Firestarter.”

She really was. I’d never even tasted lyrium until Haven. Though Deshanna kept it for emergencies, it was a rare thing indeed for a Keeper to spend more mana than she brought into the world each morning. Since the Breach, I’d forgotten that too. Slowly, the demands of the Inquisition had come to be a way of life, and there were days I had more lyrium than wine.

By the time we returned to camp, the sky had turned the darkest blue and I could hear the sleepy sounds of halla bleating their goodnights. I had the sudden urge to bury my nose in their soft fleece to breathe in the scent of home, a far warmer welcome than the Trickster’s teeth flashing in the torchlight ahead.

He represented safety to be sure, but unlike the gentle wolf in Mythal’s Temple, we carved Fen’Harel with the ferocity he deserved— lips curled back, eyes wild, and ears flattened. As I passed by, habit bent me at the waist in deference to a god too fearsome to reject, and I became keenly aware of just how many of my lethallin watched me do so.

They’d all heard what Fennehn said the night before. They all wondered…

Yet the more I wrestled with it, the less his words felt like an accusation. He simply had enough distance to acknowledge what I could not: there was no other god still roaming the Beyond, no Creator whose foci would still thrum with living power. It was irrelevant that the lie about my vallaslin bolstered his theory because there was a more damning truth I’d kept to myself.

When I was still the Chantry’s prisoner, Adan’s patient observations made my fevered ravings a matter of public record and the first words I’d spoken after falling from the Fade had been, _too many eyes._ I had only dim recollections of my time lost in the Beyond, yet I’d caught a flash of something in the murky water of the Crow Fens when Cole stood between me and Fen’Harel to whisper, _so many eyes peering from underneath._

A sense of—

Fennehn laid an arm across my shoulders, pulling me from my thoughts and through camp to stand by ‘Shanna at the largest of the bonfires. A hush fell over the clan as I stepped into the light, barefaced before them for the first time since my childhood. I fixed my eyes on an aravel in the distance to avoid the full brunt of their reaction, yet their quiet shock felt like a tangible thing.

“Lethallin,” our Keeper began. “Today the rifts in the valley are no more, healed by our sister, Herald for a god of The People whatever the shemlen would have us believe.”

As Deshanna continued it became immediately clear that Jovan had given her some censored version of what I’d told him the night before. In turn, she doled out only what the clan needed to know. That I’d walked the Raw Fade, that I’d stood in the Temple of Mythal, that I’d seen the Crossroads, that I would usher in a new era for The People.

I’d grown numb to the sort of proclamations the shemlen made in my name, but it was something else entirely to hear them from my Keeper. It wasn’t The Game and it wasn’t hollow human faith, but something so purely elven that it stole my breath away.

If Deshanna had not sent me to the conclave, if Justinia had not cried out, if Corypheus had not lost his grip on the orb, if I had not bent to collect it, if Solas had not managed to save me…I’d not rewrite my own history to find divine providence where there was none, yet I felt an overwhelming sense of awe and gratitude I had come to posses a Creator’s magic.

Then our Keeper began the song of Mythal, and a hundred elven voices lifted in praise. Adrift in the familiar sound, I thought nothing of it when Deshanna took my hand in hers, but by the time I realized what she intended it was too late. The Anchor sparked at the touch of her magic, and she threw my hand aloft for The People to see.

No. No, no, no, no, no.

I’d been in the midst of worship before, somewhere out in the snowy expanse between Haven and Skyhold, but nothing could have prepared me to stand at the heart of it in the woods I called aneth ara. My people, my songs, my gods, my home, my every comfort slipping away as the only family I’d ever known fell to their knees in obeisance.

Looking through the crowd, I felt a staggering sense of loss. I’d said my goodbyes already, once the morning I’d left for the conclave and again in my heart when I’d so carelessly told him _cast your spell._ This was another sort of goodbye, consecration.

Please get up, I thought. Get up, get up, get up…

When it was over, Deshanna led me through the camp to greet the clan, but what was done was done. I was a specter, free to move among them but no longer one of them. I felt it in the trembling hands of my kin, saw it in every reverent smile, heard it in each plaintive _andaran atishan,_ could almost taste it in the cold sweat that broke out on every hahren’s brow.

I’d escaped Andraste to become the Herald of another god and it hardly mattered who. Whether blessed by the Creators or cursed by the Wolf, the Anchor was a weight dragging me down, down, down to a place where no one could reach me.

After a time, my Keeper paused by a dwindling fire, the song of Sylaise under her breath as she renewed the wards that kept it burning smokeless and clean. Orange light glinted off the beads that tipped each long braid of her hair, and the lilac threads of Ghilan'nain’s vallaslin shone brightly against the darkness of her skin.

“You have changed completely, da’len. Without and within.”

I exhaled, letting the breath stutter from my lungs. “Keeper.”

“Your magic tastes like death,” she said. “Perhaps you belong to Falon’Din.”

Though I knew it was Amalia and not Lethanavir that colored my mana, I couldn’t help but frown. The darkness surrounding Falon’Din once seemed no more ominous than a starless sky, but since the Arbor Wilds it had become an ocean of blood.

“I practice necromancy.”

“Meditate on that decision,” she nodded. “You may find death calls to you for a reason.”

“Perhaps,” I said without conviction.

“We are trained to fear the Wolf but he is not in every shadow, da’len.”

“Fennehn makes a compelling case.”

“As did the raven called Fear.”

I dropped my voice to the barest whisper. “Abelas told me that Fen’Harel did not kill Mythal.”

Deshanna turned to face me, her eyes narrow with concern.

“Who ever said that he tried? We do not tell tales of Fen’Harel’s murderous heart, but of his treachery. Death can be an instrument of justice or compassion, but betrayal is forged from hate.”

“Yet we trust him to guard our camp, we pray for him to take our enemies.”

“We do not trust him, da’len. We _unleash_ him. Would you submit to wear his collar instead, let Fen’Harel bring a Dalish to heel? If you find yourself bound to the Wolf as you fear, pray for strength to break the chain.”

I meant to laugh, but it came out far closer to a sob. She was asking me to fight the god who vanquished two pantheons through sheer guile, before whom the stars scattered in fear. Deshanna gathered me into her arms, a thing she had not done since…perhaps not since I’d first killed a man.

“I am so proud of you, da’len,” she said, stroking my hair. “You are a thing of sylvanwood and light, bending and never breaking. Hold the tension but a while longer, you are a child of Mythal.”

For a moment I recalled the Well of Sorrows, when the Anchor seemed lost beneath the waters and a thousand voices seemed so welcoming and clear. Whatever I’d given up was not lost, only one step removed. I had a sudden, desperate urge to see Morrigan, to lay hands on her, to know what she knew.

“Keeper, do you mean to drive Souveri'alas from us a second time? I thought this was a feast!”

I twisted in Deshanna’s arms to see Jovan behind us, the tiniest baby elf in his arms and a scrawny whelp plastered to his back, little hands clinging to the belted strap of his tunic and toes digging into his sides as she climbed defiantly higher.

“Oh my gods, Atisha!”

“You remember Auntie, yeah?”

Jovan winced as she pulled on his hair to climb up for a better look. She couldn't possibly remember me, but she shook her head as if she did, then cupped her hand to whisper in her papa’s ear. He nodded conspiratorially as she rambled on, his grin growing wider.

“She is very pretty,” he agreed, and I bobbed my head in thanks.

“Are you a big sister now, Atisha?”

The girl nodded enthusiastically, black ringlets bouncing, then slowly released her grip on Jovan to shimmy down to the ground. She wavered on her feet for a moment, eying her grandmother before turning tail and taking off at full speed in the opposite direction. Jovan watched her go, then pulled me down onto the makeshift bench of a busted axle.

“This is Eli,” he said, shifting the well-swaddled baby into his lap while fishing for something in his pocket with his other hand, “and _this_ is for you.”

He passed me a small flask, identical to the one I’d lost in the attack Haven, and I smiled.

“Ma serannas, ir isala.”

“Obviously,” he said, giving Deshanna a friendly glare.

Taking her cue, she disappeared into the camp as Keepers are wont to do. I twisted the cap until it dangled from its leather strap, then took a long pull of the shittiest Antivan brandy I’d had in memory. When the burn settled down, I stroked the back of a finger across Eli’s chubby brown cheek and he rewarded me with a grin like his father’s.

“He’s very handsome, ma’sa.”

“It’s true! Shall I give you one?”

“You can try,” I laughed, knowing full well it would be years before my body was a safe enough place to hide a child.

He smirked. “Halam'shivanas.”

“Speaking of. Where’s Sy?”

“Eating, hopefully. This one takes everything she has. Let’s find her.”

All around the camp there were wild boars on spits, their bellies stuffed with forest mushrooms and long onions, with flatbreads baked on the coals underneath to catch the drippings. From where we sat I could see some of my lethallan carving up the meat with short knives, little ones running underfoot to snatch up the scraps, and elders sitting back to smoke their pipes.

It felt like I could slip into the Fade more easily than I could join their midst, so I shook the flask.

“No, no. I’m all set.”

“It’ll pass, Souveri'alas,” he said, leaning into me. “Deshanna gave them a show, and it was a good one. They needed it. But I figure love and worship, they’re not so far apart. Right now they’re high on it, but they’ll come down. Give it time.”

I took another swig from the flask, “Yeah.”

“Seriously, you should eat. I’ll die if you lose those tits. Whatever the shemlen feed you, send us a wagon of it.”

He finally broke me and I laughed, stealing a third sip for courage then relinquishing the flask to his care.

“Ma nuvenin, knifey.”

“Let’s go, mage.”

We stood and walked together through the woods, Eli cooing quietly into his father’s shoulder. In the distance I could hear what could only be Cailon’s flute joining in with the drums, a sure sign the evening had not conformed itself to my sour mood. Instead, however, Jovan brought me to a place where three aravels were clustered together, and I didn’t need to see the piles of sawdust all around to know it was a little ambush. 

My father stood up from where he’d been crouched by the fire, and it was a shock to see him— a mop of auburn hair like my own and an easy grin that made him seem younger than Solas by far. Gods, and he was, by a margin I could not even begin to comprehend. It was only the branching lines of vallaslin and dark under-eye circles that made his face seem older.

“Oh, my stormy girl,” he said, recalling the night when I first called lightning, struck but unharmed; a mage before I’d lost my first tooth.

He threw his arms around my neck, and for a moment I was too stunned to even return the gesture. But then I did, inhaling the scent of sylvanwood that always clung to his skin and wishing desperately that I was still marked for June. At last he pulled back to hold me at arm’s length, regarding my new face with a reverence I did not deserve. Even so, I held my chin high, pretending it was the gift of a god and not a parting blow from the man who must have quietly hated me all along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to say thank you to everyone who took the extra time to comment last chapter!! I was a little tipsy when I posted the "omg are you still reading" just because I was thinking holy fuck, 73 chapters?! I was not expecting the wonderful roll-call that you gave me, it was so lovely to see how many of you are still reading along. <3
> 
> A lot of what I head-canon for Dalish family life and sexuality comes from trying to imagine how these aspects of society would evolve in the absence of organized religion, government, buildings, and commerce. It's not that I think they're all freaky swingers, only that they have fewer institutional reasons to support the nuclear family.
> 
> So Deedy Loves Cake has been on a freaking ROLL!! She drew Rial's sisters [Adahlen](http://deedylovescake.tumblr.com/post/115452756919/this-bitch-third-installment-of-clan-lavellan) and [Sanumin,](http://deedylovescake.tumblr.com/post/115365513169/sanumin-lavellan-from-apotheosis) plus a very special NSFW portrait of [Jovan and his Cock,](http://deedylovescake.tumblr.com/post/115185260659/jovan-from-apotheosis-damn-like-solas-who-am-i) lolololololol.


	75. Out of Context

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The more time Rial spends away from the Inquisition, the farther she's removed from the context of her conversations with Solas. I'm sticking with only in-game quotes because, shite, he says some things that sound mighty damning in hindsight.

The veil felt like a sieve and my spirit a light that poured through unimpeded, alighting in a body I’d left cocooned in the warmth of an aravel, thick furs below and halla wool blankets above. It smelled like sylvanwood and straw, leather and apples and _elves,_ softer and sweeter than the heavy musk of human sweat.

Everything was solid and close, totally unlike the maddening shapelessness of a fluffy human bed and the cavernous expanse of Skyhold. I was half-atop Cailon with Fennehn’s arm flung across my back, aware of Jovan curled up with his da’len in the bow.

For this, the shemlen called us animals.

Only rabbits would sleep in a burrow, huddled together for warmth in the wild. And if that’s what we were, then I wanted nothing else. I was content in the wooden warrens where touch was way of life— a back warmed, a shoulder scratched, a hand held, a nightmare calmed.

The shemlen called us savages too, while every other race systematically tore itself apart.

Dwarves divided themselves between Stone and sky, decreeing that casteless whores could birth noble sons, that mighty kings should abandon their duster daughters, that sun-kissed storytellers could never go home. The Qunari denied every trace of family in dedication to duty, and shemlen shuffled their children from one kingdom to the next with every new alliance.

They said we were uncivilized, but they were the ones with widows and orphans left uncared for. They were the ones with names for such things, instead of simply acknowledging each of their own as a person worthy of care. They were the ones with whorehouses and brothels, who regulated sex like lyrium while binging in back allies. They were the ones who modeled marriage after a Maker who stole his bride from her husband, as if a god had any need for a woman.

Since the shemlen persisted in calling me her Herald, I couldn’t help but wonder what exactly Andraste ever gained from the Maker's love. It was Maferath who freed her from slavery, Shartan who aided her in battle, and Hessarian who ended her agony on the pyre. So far as I could tell, the Maker was no better than Fen’Harel, who at least never claimed to love anyone at all.

And perhaps because our most fearsome god took the shape of a wolf, because we were hunted for sport by gods and mortals alike, because our ears were too long and our feet too bare, the shemlen called us rabbits.

From where I'd sat panicking in the quiet confinement of my house in Haven, it seemed they were the ones who favored cages. I could barely remember to close the door, much less lock it behind me, to willfully deny the stars. It was a terrible isolation, and months went by where I touched no one but the corpses I looted for gold.

Months.

As camaraderie emerged, I learned to subsist on small gestures: Varric’s arm looped around my waist at the tavern or Iron Bull slapping my ass with good natured disinterest. Sometimes Cassandra would clasp my hand after battle, and sometimes Blackwall might square my shoulders in the practice yard, but mostly I remembered the warmth of Dorian’s thigh beside mine when we sat in his cabin, a bottle of brandy and Redcliffe unspoken between us.

I pressed my lips into a hard line remembering how many nights I’d run out under the stars to pretend that my lethallin was out prowling, stealthy and silent among the trees. Some irrational part of me itched to run once more, pretend that if I ran far enough I’d find him standing there in the snow, my hunter in the woods.

Even before that first kiss, Solas felt like coming home. When he called me _lethallin,_ it might as well have been a spell to spark the rune traced by my veins. We were bound together by the blood of The People. And even though he knew what I did not, that I could never be what he needed, he'd said it anyway. _Ar lath ma, vhenan._

I understand why he called it a mistake. If I were honest, the idea churned up something dark and terrible, to imagine slowly withering away while Solas remained forever in his prime. But if he’d ever felt love at all, there was no fathoming the casual cruelty of our parting. I’d seen dogs put down with more care.

Solas envisioned every detail of a mural so perfectly that he painted each one whole-cloth, could anticipate every possibility in a game of chess with no board. There was no pretending that Crestwood had been anything other than a precisely calculated move. He’d wandered Thedas as a flat-eared hermit long enough to know exactly what it would cost me to walk that same path alone. He'd lost his people in the fall, so he knew exactly what it meant to never go home.

And after everything Deshanna said about betrayal, I couldn't help but buckle under the weight of reality— this was The Game.

_I do adore the heady blend of power, intrigue, danger, and sex._

When Gaspard aired out Celene’s dirty laundry, her first instinct was to burn Halamshiral to the ground and arrest her mistress. Few could play The Game as skillfully as my lethallan, but Briala never even saw it coming. The shemlen Empress didn’t love her, she fetishized her; the imbalance of power between a noble and a servant, between a human and an elf.

It was a filthy nightmare, and after my own turn at the Winter Palace I'd needed to wash it off. I’d returned to Skyhold shaken and drained, but not Solas.

_I had forgotten how I missed court intrigue._

He’d come back ready for a fight, sparring with Vivienne and Dorian, then snapping when I dared to call the elves _our_ people. How it must have irked him to hear it from a slave-marked and mortal girl, shem blood in her veins. He didn't die for me in Redcliffe at all.

_Regardless of whom my people are, I joined the Inquisition to save the world._

Gods, he’d come so close to telling me that night, but he was grim and fatalistic enough to hold back the truth til Crestwood.

_Getting you into bed is just an enjoyable side benefit._

Did he think my vallaslin gave him the right, imagine that I was his due? A benefit that came with his station? He’d only fucked me while I wore the brand of a slave, and was haughty enough to presume _my freedom_ was something he could grant. I wasn’t his.

I was never his.

The realization rocked me hard enough that Cailon shifted beneath me, and by the time I’d eased out from under the weight of Fennehn’s arm and through the back flap of the aravel, my heart was racing.

Sy sat by a dwindling fire, her hair a gentle cloud flecked with freshly fallen snow. She looked up from Eli at her breast with a sleepy smile that stretched Andruil’s bow, her eyes skipping across my features as she learned my face again. I ducked my head and slipped out from the camp, folding up the fade to step beyond where our scouts would roam.

The woods of Wycome had been my winter place since childhood, and I ran between the trees like a ghost, disturbing nothing. I was ever just below the branches, just above the twisted roots, just between the trunks, just because if I ran fast enough it all blurred together and maybe I was still me.

A Dalish mage, First to her clan, marked by no god but June, yet to play The Game.

About a mile out, the trees gave way to a little clearing where Satina’s wan light reflected off a blanket of unblemished snow. I stopped short within the shadowed woods, too Dalish to run in the open. I’d have missed it altogether if not for some subtle motion that caught my eye— a white wolf crouched at the edge of the glen and all but invisible in the snow.

My breath caught in awe. Wolves were common enough in the Free Marches, but none as large as this. Lean and lanky beneath a heavy winter coat, pale eyes catching the moonlight. One slender ear quirked and it turned, its steely gaze cutting through the darkness to find me where I stood.

Instinct should have thrown me back a pace, but I couldn’t move. It was fade-touched.

And suddenly there were three figures bursting into view, long cloaks flying out behind them as they cut across the clearing. I had no trouble from the size and shape of them discerning a shemlen and two elves, and that was all that stayed the Anchor in my palm. I hesitated only a moment, loathe to leave the mystery of the wolf, then tore off after them through the woods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear to Mythal, I will progress this story in the next chapter. I just. Rial has a lot of Dalish feels to reconnect with.
> 
> Toward the end of this chapter, definitely feeling Fiona Apple's "Limp" would be a good song choice. XD


	76. The Exception

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because there's never anything so fun in Dragon Age as raiding some corrupted lord's mansion and choosing all the most aggressive dialogue options. We got to do it with Howe in DAO, with the Harimanns in DA2, with chateau Haine in MotA, and...I guess I should make up a last name for Duke Antoine that starts with H!

As it turned out, I wouldn’t stop running until midafternoon.

Along with two elves from the city, Jester returned to camp with a message from Lady Volant. Even in the flickering firelight where I found Sy still nursing her child, I could see that two words in the carefully worded letter bent beneath the weight of a coded call to arms: Change. Regime.

The rest of her message painted the problem in red— blighted lyrium in the municipal wells. That the duke would unleash such madness on the nobility implied that he truly believed it something safe; otherwise I couldn't fathom that he hadn't tested it in the alienage instead. He was nothing but a pawn, caught up in whatever scheming lies some Venatori whispered in his rounded ear.

I’d have almost felt sorry for him had he not blamed the _rats._ Had he not sent bandits into the valley. Had he not attacked the only clan in all of Thedas that would still have me. I was a merciful Inquisitor but not so far removed from my time as First that I’d forgotten what it meant to serve Elgar’nan.

I threw a single raven at Skyhold with Cullen’s name clutched in its claw, but by the time our hunters had grabbed their blades, there was nothing left but to shout, “Andruil enaste.” In that moment, I hoped she was the god of bloody sacrifice. I didn’t care if she was as fucking mad as the elvhen claimed— she'd be nothing compared to me.

But for a small contingent of hunters and hahren left in the camp to watch over our da’len, the whole of Lavellan marched with me to Wycome. Under the Inquisition’s banner, we moved through the streets at dawn, unmolested by the city guard. Jester led a sortie of Inquisition forces to flush out the red lyrium from the wells and ensure no harm came to the city elves. 

We Dalish stormed the Duke’s estate, with Amalia rolling violet chaos through the halls before us and Deshanna casting wards behind. The elven servants turned on their masters just as quickly as we came, and any shem fool enough to think they’d escape could only do so by throwing themselves at the mercy or the arrows of my sisters on the preposterously well manicured lawn.

It swift and bloody. The Venatori were mere stragglers, yet to hear of their master’s failure in the Arbor Wilds, utterly defenseless with their Red Templar protectors so weak from lack of lyrium. Jovan swept through them like the wind, his daggers loosing tendons and opening veins, while our hunters flew into the manor with the pent-up rage we'd all had a lifetime to collect.

Fennehn and I tore down the spiraling stone stairs on a hunch, finding Antoine with two of his personal guards in the wine cellar, heaving aside crates of aggregio to get at some long-forgotten exit. We paused only a heartbeat at the door, exchanging a glance at once familiar to any Dalish: let’s be savages.

It would have been over too soon if I’d have called on the Anchor, so while it flared with frustration in my palm, I cast a static cage, attuning its magic to strike the shemlen alone. Antoine was not unarmed, nor were his soldiers entirely witless, but none could match a Dalish mage whose sword sang dirth'ena enasalin. Where Vivienne called up a blade of pure spirit, Fennehn reached for ice.

I put my own runes on the door to guard our backs, but otherwise enjoyed the satisfaction of seeing the Knight Enchanter's skill in elven hands. Though he’d been named for the guardians of the Emerald Graves, Fennehn moved with a distinctly feline grace. He batted at the shemlen armor with bruising strength, freezing it up along the joints so that they had to fight for every tiny motion, then sundering apart the heavy pieces. He pierced and wounded with languid strikes, making a show of his boredom before finally disarming each one with a careless swat. 

Oh, but he was far from done; we’d gone raiding together before.

I wandered through the cellar while Fennehn continued to play, strangely wishing for Dorian to explain whether the duke’s collection had anything of any merit. Largely deaf to the sounds behind me, I settled on a bottle that seemed exceptional for its vintage in the Blessed Age and lopped off the neck with my stave.

“Lethallan.”

I returned to the back of the room where I’d left him, finding Lavellan's First standing over what would soon be the Duke of Wycome's corpse. I took a long pull of the wine, mindful of the sharp edge, and passed the bottle to Fennehn. He drank from it much as Jovan would, adopting a careless posture that belied his complete and utter readiness for whatever happened next.

The guards on the floor didn’t so much as twitch, so I called Amalia to rouse them, sending Antoine into a fit of terror. The violet-eyed shemlen dragged the duke to his feet, holding him there because he was too shitless to stand. Fennehn simply raised an eyebrow, then dispassionately poured the rest of the wine down the Duke's throat. Only then did I belatedly realize I’d met Antoine once before.

He’d come to Skyhold not long after Adamant; we’d had dinner with Josephine and Cullen. One of his sisters was a mage, and we'd found common ground in our poor opinion of the Circle; he'd even offered a sizable donation to help the Inquisition build a mage tower of its own.

“Did your ‘vint advisor suggest attacking my clan, or is that just how poorly you play The Game?”

“Your clan?” the Duke sputtered, blood dotting up on his chin. “Whatever you want…whatever you people want, take it. Farmland! To the south, all of it can be ce—”

“Don’t tell me you thought I came here to negotiate.”

“I have loyal friends in the Inquisition! I can get—”

“I _am_ the fucking Inquisition!”

At that I slammed my forearm against his throat, and Amalia loosened the guards’ hold enough that he went reeling back into the wall where I pinned him. He peered at me wide-eyed, so much as all the blackened swelling would allow, but the recognition was slow to dawn on his features. We’d met, alright, but he’d never registered anything more than my vallaslin.

“In— Inquisitor Lavellan? But you're...”

Didn’t matter what he was going to say, that was as far as he fucking got. As I brought my staff to bear, I remembered the good man Thom Rainier dug out from the shit of his soul, but by the time I’d cracked it down to call lightning, I was more concerned with the nightmare Sethius Amladaris found in his.

In the next heartbeat, the room stank of charred flesh and I stepped back in disgust. He knew Inquisitor Lavellan, and he might have even liked her, but he'd never even realized my clan had a name. I'd been a person dressed in Free Marcher finery and sitting at a shemlen table, but the rest of my people were simply rabbits in the woods, no different from any other mob of Dalish savages. None of it had anything to do with me at all. It was only that with or without my vallaslin nobody ever really thought I was Dalish; I was the exception.

Simply because I'd learned to navigate their world, everyone deigned to think I'd never truly belonged to my own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As much as possible, I've tried to make this follow the quest's success as it plays out on the war table. So that means [getting Jester involved](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Protect_Clan_Lavellan) through Leliana, [getting Lady Volant](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Investigate_Duke_Antoine_of_Wycome) involved through Josephine ("Change" and "Regime" are the only italicized words in her letter), then [get Jester and the Dalish](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Stop_Purge_of_Wycome%27s_Elves) into Wycome, and asking [Cullen's forces](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Protect_Clan_Lavellan_and_Wycome) to hold the city.


	77. A Flare for the Dramatic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, so long as I'm flinging myself entirely off the canon rails for this little War Table mission...

I remembered finding Adahlen outside the duke’s estate with one bare foot on a charred human corpse, bracing it to free her arrow. She had only a slightly glazed look about her, by far more composure than I’d managed after my first kill. Then again, considering the circumstances…

“I want you to pierce my ears,” she’d announced without preamble.

“Oh?” I asked, not deviating from the script.

“Seven times,” she insisted, and I didn’t have to count the arrows missing from her quiver to know. “How many’d you get?”

“All of them,” I said, “Ma melava halani, but every one of them died because I said so. Don’t make it personal, Adahlen.”

“Prey is prey,” she shrugged, but even then I’d known she wouldn’t feel so cocksure when the adrenaline wore off.

“Then why don’t you have a hundred earrings by now?”

She'd looked down, wiping one bloody foot in the grass, “Yeah.”

“Pierce me instead. I’ll remember them for you.”

Details swam in the Fade. She seemed younger than fifteen, and her vallaslin flickered in and out as my mind’s eye struggled to remember exactly where they went. A little heart shaped curl on her chin, a twist of red outlining her amber eyes. But then she’d be babyfaced once more, the same girl who’d come to me crying, _maybe it’s not really magic…_

I hadn’t dreamed a memory in a very long time, and the realization set the Fade spinning forward to nightfall when she’d crawled into the bed that I’d made in the alienage, complaining that she couldn’t breathe without the stars. We’d spooned up beneath the window where I’d shoved my cot, her head beneath my chin and my ear still throbbing from where she’d given up her guilt.

“They gave me a little house like this,” I’d told her, but I didn’t say how much I missed it. That stupid fucking shemlen village, and the bright winter mornings when I’d walk outside to find Varric stamping his feet by the fire and Solas staring up at the Breach. If I were honest, it wasn't Haven that I missed.

I stood, leaving the memory of Adahlen to venture into the alienage where Deshanna and I met with their Hahren beneath the vhenadahl, hammering out the first inkling of a treaty between our peoples. The People. Only this time it was Amalia standing there, wearing a simple muslin gown, her copper curls falling down around her shoulders.

I could only catch bits and pieces of the soft lullaby she seemed to breathe, skipping notes of some melancholy tune. She cocked her head to the side, regarding me with something like relief before taking a step closer to brush back a stray lock of hair. She frowned.

“He will be furious with us.”

It was a clean step from the Fade, but not pleasant. I shot forward all at once, fuck, gods, my head. Thundering pain drove me back down into a filthy pallet, and my vision went white around the edges. When it finally cleared, I stared off in a daze, some long forgotten part of me trying to make sense of the world by parsing out tracks in the dirt floor. One booted human, a barefoot elf, a cat.

“And here I was beginning to think I’d lost my touch.”

I twisted to look up at a bedraggled shemlen with long black hair hanging in greasy locks, the shadow of a beard on his hollow cheeks. While I couldn’t quite place his soft accent, I could almost taste the Fade on him— a sense so powerful that I instinctively groped for a barrier.

“Good. That’s good, sweetheart. You are safe here, but I am gladdened to see your strength return.”

“Who the fuck are you?”

I’d cottonmouth something fierce, and the words stuck to the roof of my mouth. He dropped to sit on the edge of the mattress and pressed a palm to my forehead, pushing me back into the pillow with a flood of soothing magic.

“A healer, which means we’re both apostates, so go ahead and iron out your knickers.”

“I… ir abelas. What happened?”

“Dunno, love. Wasn’t there.”

“I mean,” I tried sitting up again when I felt the pain subside, “You healed me, so, what was wrong?”

“You were dead.”

“Oh,” I breathed.

“You waltzed in here, smoke pouring out both eyes and looking straight through me. ‘Fix her,’ you said.”

“I’m a necromancer,” I could scarcely get the words out fast enough. “Not an—”

“Trust me,” he said with a wry smile, “I know an abomination when I see one.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, thanking Amalia who took care of me better than any god. She buzzed at the edge of my awareness, alert but not alarmed…per se. When I opened them again, I realized the only light in the room came from a torch affixed to the wall. Deep shadows in every corner suggested a larger space, and only when my eyes adjusted did I see that it hardly deserved to be called a room. More of a closet, really, with mere inches to spare from the bed to a table cluttered with parchment and quills.

The air felt cool and clammy on my skin, stagnant. A few links of sausage hung from a hook on the ceiling, as well as a braid of garlic and a knotted tangle of turnips, greens and all. Along with a few bins of potatoes and apples, I could make out a cord of firewood stacked neatly along the wall. A root cellar, then.

But there were books and piles of clothes all around, a washbasin and a straight razor and a little dish of cream on the floor. It had a rather lived-in feel, which could only mean that I was in his bed. The mage followed my gaze to the embroidered pillow dented beside me and shrugged a little sheepishly.

“I’m not _that_ chivalrous.”

I shrugged it off in turn. “How long have I been here?”

“Three days.”

“Oh, gods. Shit. I have to g—”

“Don’t think so, love. The blighted Inquisition’s tearing the city apart, we should lay low.”

My heart squeezed tight in my chest as I willed the Anchor to remain dormant. Had it gone unnoticed for three days or was he testing me? His brown eyes softened with a smile as he mistook whatever flashed across my features for pain.

“Here, let me get you something for that.”

I slumped back down into the bed while the mage stretched out to pluck a thin vial from the desk. Every inch the healer he claimed to be, he cradled the back of my head in his hand so that I could drink without sitting. I took the restorative in three halting sips, but gods what I needed was a lyrium. I could hardly ask for that without sounding primed for a fight, so I determined to try and learn what had him so scared of…me, in a roundabout way.

“What’s the Inquisition even doing in the Free Marches?”

“Bollocks if I know,” he snapped. “They swept in two days ago, ostensibly to keep peace after the riots, but it turned into a witch-hunt straight away.”

I did remember the riots. It had taken little effort to win the human merchants to our side, severe taxes and regulations had poisoned their opinion of the duke long before red lyrium, but the nobility framed the whole thing as an elven rebellion. I wasn’t even sure how it started, we’d held Wycome for two weeks, but one night a fire broke out in the high quarter, then the looting began, and… Apparently I got myself fucking killed.

Mythal’s mercy. I couldn’t even begin to imagine the clan’s reaction to my disappearance, much less Cullen arriving on the scene and demanding answers from Deshanna with Fennehn snapping at his heels. 

“What did you mean ‘witch-hunt’?”

“Exactly that. The former Knight-Captain of Kirkwall himself is kicking down doors, shaking out the Merchants’ Quarter. Sobering news for any mage who can remember his tenure in the Gallows.”

“I remember,” I said, and it was true.

“Good. Then you know why you can’t go out there.”

However often I reminded myself _whatever we were before…_ I could not forget the decade Cullen spent as second in command to Meredith Stannard. Those years brought an endless string of apostates who fled the Gallows, desperate to escape a regime that produced more blood mages, more corpses, more Tranquil, than any two Circles combined. Those years produced Samson.

In a way, those years produced the Inquisitor herself, because the mages we sheltered and the Templars we fought marked the end of my childhood and the beginning of my time as First, when my mother died and Deshanna took her place as Keeper. If not for those bloody years, Deshanna would not have become so invested in the outcome of the conclave. It took months before I’d finally understood Cullen’s role in Kirkwall, but by then he was simply the kindhearted shemlen who’d blushed when I’d asked about his vows.

“I hear he’s turned a new leaf,” I said, aware of how glib it sounded.

“An opportunity he denied to how many mages? Have you ever met a Tranquil?” 

“A few,” I admitted, wondering despite myself if Cullen ever held the brand.

“Did you know any of them before?”

“No.”

“Then you cannot even begin to fathom what sort of monster the Inquisition has sent to Wycome.”

“I would rather run than hide.”

“And blow my cover? No, thank you. Trust me, running always gets you caught. Andraste herself couldn’t find a better hidey-hole and we’d be fools to leave it. We must wait for this to pass.”

“It’s not going to pass,” I countered, wondering how much I could safely say. “I think…I think he’s looking for me.”

He suddenly paled, “Does he have your phylactery?”

“No, but—”

The mage laughed and scratched the back of his head. “Listen, sweetheart, whatever you’ve done I’ve a hunch that lyrium addled fool has a bigger prize in mind. He’ll leave the Marches empty handed, I’ll see to that.”

“So I’m your prisoner.”

A genuinely wounded look crumpled his features. “You’re as weak as a newborn kitten, love. If I turned you out on the streets, you’d be dead by sunrise. I know you must be terribly frightened, but you’re safe here, I swear it.”

“I’m not as weak as you think,” I said as calmly as I could. “The only reason I’m still here is because I don’t have the finesse to incapacitate you.”

“Well then it’s a good thing I don’t have any wallop mallets lying about, otherwise you’d just bludgeon me and be gone. Such gratitude!”

“I’m making a mess of this. I owe you my life and I’m more grateful than you can possibly know, but also more deadly. I don’t have a _defensive_ spell to my name, but I can take down an army. Holding back’s what got me killed in the riots.”

“Oh, right. I’ll just turn you loose on the city, then. Lovely.”

I sighed in frustration and ran my fingers trough my hair, finding rather suddenly that I had nearly none, just two jagged welts winding across the back of my skull.

“Sorry about that,” he apologized. “Low on lyrium. By the time I pulled you through the worst of it, I had no choice but to close it all up the old fashioned way.”

I felt about with both hands, finding the fringe around my forehead untouched but the rest cropped down to my scalp; gods, I'd have been better off if he'd simply shaved it.

“No, it’s…thank you for saving me. I can’t heal for shit.”

“So I noticed,” he smirked.

I glanced down to see that I’d been bandaged from hip to collarbone, the gauzy strips stained here and there with blood turned brown by time. Below that I wore a pair of short pants, likely his own smalls. I pushed back a wave of concern, reminding myself that he’d provided healing even after Amalia dragged me to his door like an abomination. He wasn’t the enemy, but that did little to calm my growing frustration.

I tried to slow my breathing, but I was already lightheaded with panic— trapped underground in a tiny closet with a shemlen mage, half-naked and unarmed while everyone I ever knew or loved thought I was dead or worse, in enemy hands. I could only assume that Cullen kept that fear in strict confidence, because if Corypheus believed me dead he’d fall on Skyhold in an instant…

“I’m the Herald of Andraste.”

“Maker’s breath,” he laughed, “And here I thought I had a flare for the dramatic! I hate to break it to you, but she’s Dalish.”

I scrubbed a hand across my damnably bare face, buying time to tamp down an all too Dalish response.

“Ir abelas, falon, but Cullen will take this city apart brick by brick if he has to. And if he can’t find me, the Inquisition has a mage who can.” 

And for a moment I thought of burrowing down deep, hiding from the world with this strange human and waiting for Solas to step through the fade to find me. He would, too. At the earliest sign of Cullen’s failure to do so. I was first and foremost a weapon against Corypheus, and he’d see to it that I performed my fucking duty if it meant dragging me back to Skyhold himself.

A desire demon couldn’t have conjured a more tempting thought, and one likely would if I fell asleep anywhere but an Inquisition camp. I couldn’t allow it.

I took the shemlen’s hand, noticing how meticulously clean it was; nails clipped short and scrubbed pink, not even a trace of blood despite how much of mine he must have worn. I rubbed my thumb across his in what I hoped was a soothing gesture, then turned my left hand palm-up.

“Um…”

“I swear to the Creators no harm will come to you because of me.”

The Anchor sputtered to life, the barest trickle of power that I could release, but by then I was pinned to the bed, his hand wrapped around my throat. Hairline cracks split across his features, spilling out traces of blue light before a blinding burst. His eyes were consumed by it, raw fade billowing out at the edges as he roared, “How did you find us?” 

Creators, fuck. 

He was an abomination.

He shrugged off my mindblast, and I clawed at his hand, trying to find my voice but discovering another instead. _Surrender to me,_ she whispered. _But for an instant, Rial, nothing more._ I fought them both, trying to breathe, trying to clear my mind, and then it was just fucking easier to let go. I seemed to fall back or float away, drifting to some place in the distance where I watched the scene unfold.

“Release us,” said the Nevarran wearing my skin. “We have no interest in your affairs.”

“Kitty,” he scowled.

I felt an irrepressible urge to smile, though I didn’t know why. “Justice.”

“You know nothing of justice!”

“Do I not?”

The spirit in him relented by degrees for Amalia, and she raised one of my hands to his cheek. His scowl deepened, but he released his hold on me just as she did the same. Then the mage and I were well and truly alone; perhaps for the first time. I heaved up in the bed and onto my knees, coughing and choking and then shaking uncontrollably. Sweet fucking gods, she’d possessed me.

“I apologize,” he said flatly. “Are you alright?”

“I’ve just…I’ve never…”

“It can be disconcerting.”

There was a warm hand on my back, but I was beyond caring. I tried to take calming breaths, tried to forget my tongue wrapped around someone else’s words and my hand moving of its own volition. He came and went, some indeterminate period of time passing by, then the bed shifted as he sat down beside me.

“Your things were…beyond mending. But the girl who brings the water, I can have her fetch something for you to wear.”

“No. Just let me go. Please.”

“Alright.”

“I never saw you.”

“Good.”

He helped me to stand, and if he hadn’t returned my staff I’d have fallen to my feet. He’d been right: I was in no condition to run. But with a barrier and a static charge, I felt confident that I could limp back to the alienage unmolested. If not, I was frayed enough that I wouldn’t hesitate to simply leave a trail of corpses.

“When this is over, go to the Dalish and tell them Souveri sent you. I’ll see you repaid.”

“I don’t need your gold.”

“Yes,” I said, glancing around the shithole, “you do.”

He led me to a narrow stairwell against the wall, shoving open a wooden door mounted in the sloping ceiling to let snowflakes and starlight come pouring through. Perhaps a human girl would have shivered to set out barefoot into the night, but it was of no concern to me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> But seriously. How many tranquil do you think Cullen branded? :/
> 
> I'm sorry it's been such slow going through the Lavellan chapters. This is the part where I realize how much harder it is to break new ground than tread the brilliant paths of the game. Thanks for hanging in there with me!!!


	78. All but Invisible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After escaping the apostate, Rial heads out to find Cullen and the Inquisition, only to discover getting caught by a Templar isn't as easy as she'd hoped.

When gravity slammed the door shut behind me, I found myself in the middle of a withered garden staring up at Andraste herself, one hand on her breast and the other outstretched to collect fat flakes of snow instead of alms for the poor. I couldn’t help but stand in awe of his audacity— the apostate had dug-in behind the fucking Chantry.

My first steps were tentative and short, fearful tests of strength. The lingering trauma of whatever happened to my head and chest left me too weak to vault over the wrought iron fence, while my nearly empty pool of mana kept me from stepping through the fade.

So much for the mighty Inquisitor, penned up like a halla.

I stumbled along the perimeter of the fence in search of an exit, but in truth I wasn’t sure I could have walked the distance without its support. After an embarrassing length of time, I came upon a latch and pushed open a gate that swung on hinges greased to move in perfect silence.

It released me into a narrow alley and I let the distant sounds of shouting turn me west. While the pain didn’t bother me overmuch, I’d long since learned to shoulder an arrow and keep moving, it slowed my pace remarkably. I’d be useless in a fight other than to simply destroy everything in my path, so I kept my barrier tight around me and let Amalia curl in a little cloud at my feet.

As one squalid street fed into another, it came as something of a shock to see how little attention I drew on my crawl. I passed my fair share of drunks and layabouts, but apparently the world found nothing unusual about a mostly naked elf, limping through the streets bloodied and bruised. Not even the thieves bothered me.

When the back alley I’d chosen finally opened up into a downmarket square, I was relieved to spot Inquisition banners held high among the torches. Amalia eased back into the Fade as I shouldered my way through a crowd of disgruntled merchants, half-asleep and drawn from their beds by the furious banging that progressed from door to door.

Grateful for the warm press of bodies all around, I paused to listen for snatches of conversation that might help me piece together how Cullen was playing this hand.

“S’posed to be poison, but it’s just a rock. Prolly worth a fortune, like rubies...”

“Think I’d remember a glowing crystal, but no. Barged right on in…”

“Checking every cellar, said ‘don’t drink the water’ but how am I gonna…”

It was a fantastic pretext, but then again I could only suppose that Cullen had experience enough conducting midnight raids. Never thought I’d want to be found by a Templar, much less at a total loss as to how I could make it happen.

The wind that knifed through my barrier stole the air from my lungs, and I was quite certain I wouldn’t be able to shout. Of course, I’d have no trouble getting attention with the Anchor, but that wasn’t exactly how I wanted to announce myself. The last thing we needed was for Corypheus to catch wind that I was gravely injured and a thousand miles from Skyhold.

Though it came as no surprise that our troops had been instructed to make a tight wall of their shields, it was maddening to find myself on the wrong side. Even if I had the stealth to slip through, I had no confidence that anyone would recognize me. Without my armor or the wild Dalish hair Maryden sang of, nothing but the Anchor would identify me. I choked back something that could have been a laugh or a sob at the irony of being all but invisible amid the crowd of shemlen frantic to find me.

I fell back apace, half wondering if I shouldn’t try to find Jovan instead. Not that I had any idea where to start, there was little chance he’d be sitting on his ass in the alienage, even less that I could make it that far. I’d severely overestimated my strength when I convinced the mage to release me.

It was only thanks to elven ears that I heard the grumble of those jostled by a soldier shoving his way through the crowd, and a stroke of luck that I recognized him at all. It took everything I had, and the tiniest use of force magic, to outpace him before he reached the knot of Inquisition troops ahead. When I finally threw myself across his path, I didn’t need to fake the yelp of my landing or the instinctive need to curl up as he barely avoided trampling me underfoot.

With a shout for everyone to back the fuck up, the soldier knelt down to slip an arm under my shoulder, helping me to sit.

“That was quite the tumble. Need to get you to a healer, yeah?”

I slumped enough that he tightened his grip, then hid my face in the crook of his neck to whisper, “Krem.”

He didn’t even pull back to check, just bundled me up into his arms while I clumsily wrapped my own around his neck.

“Nice of you to finally turn up,” he said in an even tone, rising to his feet with a grunt.

“Sorry, got into a bit of a pinch.”

“How we doing this?”

“I’ve been out for three days, I’m open to suggestions.”

He mulled it over, then changed course to shoulder his way through the crowd. I tucked in my legs and clutched my staff behind him, trying to be small and inconspicuous in his arms.

“Is the Iron Bull here?”

“And leave that fancy castle of yours undefended? Not a chance. I came along in case the Commander needed to move outside the Inquisition’s jurisdiction, but looks like it won’t come to that.”

“And the rioting?”

“Over before we arrived. Apparently the lady Volant talked pretty circles around those stuff-shirt nobles, now the whole lot of ‘em are playing nice.” He paused a moment, shifting me in his arms. “Oy, make way!”

With that, we broke through the line of soldiers and into the torchlight.

“Commander,” he shouted, “Found this one in an alley, going on about red lyrium. Think we might finally get some answers.”

From where I rested my cheek against his leather collar, I couldn’t see Cullen at all, but there was a shuffle of bodies and a shifting of shadows, then warmth behind me.

“Anything specific to report, or just—”

I twisted against Krem’s breastplate to look over my shoulder, grimacing with the effort. “Fairly specific.”

“Blessed Andraste,” he swore, and I found something perversely satisfying in his horrified expression. It was the first time I’d seen Cullen since we parted ways in the Arbor Wilds, and while someone had surely warned him about my missing vallaslin, I’d revived enough corpses to know I must look awful.

I gave him a weak smile, “Looking for me?”

His shoulder bunched with some ghost of a movement, and he let out a ragged breath.

“Thank the Maker,” he said, low as a whisper. He swiftly straightened to add sternly, “I don’t have time for this Aclassi. Find an Inquisition healer and send word to the elves.”

“Ser.”

And with that we were moving through the crush of bodies once more, leaving Cullen to find the least suspicious end to his ruse. Krem took us down a broad street, and I watched over his shoulder as the crowded square became nothing more than a glowing point behind us.

“I can walk, Krem.”

“Don’t doubt it, Your Worship, but then we’d need all week to get there.”

I let a heavy sigh express my amusement and gratitude, then forced myself to relax; to a human I would have been a very small burden indeed. Without having to fight for every step, I became more aware of the pain radiating out from my chest and the cold that seemed to steep into my bones as the walk stretched on for an eternity. I ground my teeth together to keep them from chattering, but there was nothing I could do to stop my trembling.

Long before I caught the stench of fish, I heard the rhythmic stretch of rope as ships strained against their mooring; we’d come to the port of Wycome. Krem walked along the shabby promenade, boots clicking sharply against the wooden slats, until he came to a tavern with a pair of Inquisition banners and soldiers posted on either side of the door.

"Welcome back, lad," said the one.

"Evening, Lysa."

Krem carefully backed through a door carved to read _The Dead Helm_ , bringing us into a darkened foyer that sheltered the main hall from harsh winds whipping off the Amaranthine. I had a feeling Cullen objected on principle, but a tavern made sense enough as a base of operation— plenty of beds and stables and privies and a kitchen big enough to feed the lot of us. Krem set me gently on my feet, and I clutched at his shoulder for support while he opened the inner door.

Inside, an enormous fire in the hearth bathed the room in warmth and light. Sweet Sylaise, the warmth was incredible. A few soldiers and scouts glanced our way, but most were caught up around what looked like an improvised war table. A strained voice was saying _we won’t know until we’ve cleared the rubble,_ and faces all around looked grim. However much I wanted to slink off and collapse in some private room, the tension had to break.

Not with secondhand news that the Herald yet lived or the sight of a broken and bloodied girl, but with the triumphant Inquisitor who’d once brought down a mountain to save them. So I stepped away from Krem and disguised the weight I put on my staff as the same lazy confidence Varric brought to every gesture.

The Anchor blazed, and I grinned through the pain in my lungs to shout, “Maker’s breath, what’s an elf gotta do to get a drink around here?”

There was a single heartbeat of perfect silence before the room exploded with shouting and thunderous applause that left me reeling. I rolled my wince into a wider grin and prayed that Krem would, in fact, bring the healer Cullen promised. Preferably, I thought as a foamy mug of ale was sloshed into my Anchored palm, sometime before I passed out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you were wondering about Anders' new career as a barber, [Deedy Loves Cake](http://deedylovescake.tumblr.com/post/117365617654/rials-been-through-some-shit-p-much-a-stone-wall) tackled Rial's new haircut/head injury combo. Oh man, Solas is gonna lose his shit when he sees this poor girl. PLUCK THOSE HEARTSTRINGS, DEE!!!!
> 
> Also, for anyone who missed it, I posted a [little smutty Solas/Rial thing](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3770851/chapters/8378695) to cheer me up during the dark, depressing days of this damn break up. xoxo As always, thank you so much for reading along all this way!!


	79. Teeth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a phenomenal quote in the whole "punch Solas" disapproval scenario ("I should thank you..."), and I've been dying to find a way to give it an appearance. Solas + Jovan, et voila.

Krem had poured an elfroot potion into my ale before heading up to find a healer, but it might as well have been water. Red began to seep through my bandaging and I felt a heaviness in my lungs that wouldn’t clear with a cough.

Given how quickly the world began to swim around me, I was reasonably certain that I hadn’t eaten in three days. Probably hadn’t had more to drink than whatever the mage squeezed out of a wet rag either. Gods, I was thirsty.

As soon I’d emptied my mug, another soldier came to exchange it, and I pushed my way through the tavern, slapping backs and apologizing that some fling with a Qunari had caused such a fuss. Of course no one bought it, but they didn’t have to. They roared with laughter and catcalls for an Inquisitor so completely unfazed by death that it was a joke.

Mostly unfazed. Except for the spinning.

“Sweet gods. June. Sister!” 

Sanumin appeared at my side, relieving me of my staff and wedging one shoulder under my arm. We teetered a few paces, then Jovan slipped in on the other side to replace her, smiling with calculated mirth.

“A round for the Dalish!” he shouted, twirling me in his arms.

Another cheer rose up, then there was a clashing of cups, a chug of ale, and a dance that carried us inconspicuously through the crowd. The voices roared in my ears, somewhere far away like a seashell, and I nearly blacked out, or maybe I did, because I was being carried up a stairwell and he was pinching the back of my leg.

“Where’ve you been, mage?”

“Hi, knifey.”

“No, no. Keep those eyes open.”

I looked up at him so he’d know that I was trying, but I couldn’t seem to hang onto any detail aside from the curling spaces in his vallaslin where his skin showed through. In the gaps I could still see the barefaced apprentice, so dangerously quick that none of our hunters could handle him.

Sanumin climbed the stairs a few paces above, her auburn hair unbound and wild from the winter wind. Then everything went choppy, a flash of moments I could barely register: cool blue light at the landing, the rattle of bones on my staff, Sanumin going flat against the wall, and undisguised menace when she said, “Back it up, flat-ear.”

By then Jovan had already skipped back, steady even as he dropped down three steps, shifting me in his arms only just enough to pluck a dagger from its sheath.

“Hey, easy, San,” said Krem. “He’s a healer.”

“Ir abelas, da’len. The resemblance is…uncanny.”

My heart stopped.

I’d clawed my way from the Well of Sorrows for that voice. Between the pain and ale, I couldn’t quite remember what had ever been the problem or why I shouldn’t fight my way back to him once more. I writhed against Jovan, tugging on the veil to slip from his grasp.

I landed on my feet just past Sanumin, and he spun at the sound— as stunned as I remembered him in Redcliffe when he gasped, _you’re alive!_ If there’d ever been a reason for us to be apart, he couldn’t seem to remember it either.

We met in a rush, my hand on the back of his neck to pull him down and his arms around me; then his mouth found mine and, oh, gods, he felt like silk under my tongue. I exhaled into him, wishing I was Amalia and that I could make him breathe me in.

“Melava garas, I can’t believe you came,” I was babbling on the dregs of my own adrenaline. “Tel’revas, vhenan. I can’t do this anymore, it’s madness. I told you in the stairwell, ar lath ma, F—”

“She’s delirious,” he cut me off, and the world swung on its hinges as he swept me into his arms.

“Obviously.”

That was San, tense and wary as Solas took off down the hall in long, easy strides. From the scuffle of bare feet on hardwood, I knew that she and Jovan followed close behind, though it seemed absurd they could make so much noise.

“Praise Ghilan'nain for leading her home.”

Something about Jovan’s tone bothered me, but it took everything I had to stay on the waking side of the veil. Instead, I focused on the man who held me, how lines of tension jumped from his neck to his jaw, and the frown that played at the corner of his mouth. I pushed at him with a curl of mana and, for a heartbeat, his eyes blinked shut.

When they opened, his face was serene, the mask in place.

A burst of force magic threw open a door at the end of the hall, and then I was sinking into a narrow human bed that smelled like home. Solas turned from me to stand shy of his full height, shoulders rolled forward like a much older man. He wrung his hands together as he had the day we met, neither a powerful mage nor an ancient noble, but a soft spoken hermit.

“I apologize for such a poor introduction,” he said, almost bashful as he cleared his throat. “I fear I let myself be swept up in the Inquisitor’s delirium. I am Solas, a healer.”

Jovan leaned against the doorframe, lanky and careless as he glanced down the hall to hide the dark side of his vallaslin, something he did only to put outsiders at ease.

Oh, gods, he was hunting.

“No apologies needed, falon. Souveri’alas has always been a force of nature. Andaran atish’an. I am Jovan, and this is Sanumin. We tend the clan’s halla.”

“Forgive me, hahren. I should not have spoken so rashly, fear for my sister has me on edge.”

“The fault is mine, da’len, but I must ask that you now entrust the Inquisitor to my care. There is much to be done.”

“Of course,” said Jovan. “Lethallan, go home, rest. Ask Fennehn to watch the herd tonight, and do be discreet. He will not share our tolerance for your sister’s…indiscretion.”

I swallowed, reaching for words but finding none. In the newfound warmth of the bed, I was consumed by Sloth. I could only listen, lazy and limp as sounds sloshed into my ears. I heard the clatter of enchantments and crystal, my staff being set against the wall, then footsteps retreating down the corridor. A weight dipped the bed at my side, and two long fingers settled against the underside of my wrist. 

“Shut the door,” said Solas, counting the beats of my heart.

There was a soft click of metal and wood, then Jovan broke the ensuing silence with Dalish swearing about the damnable cold. He rattled about the hearth, repositioning the logs, fumbling with the tinderbox, blowing puffs of air to fan the flames. 

“I feel _I_ should apologize, hahren. Souveri’s free to love whom she wills, but her position within the clan is precarious. There are those who would use her affair with an outsider as further proof of disloyalty.”

Solas exhaled sharply through his nose. “How quickly the Dalish turn their allies into traitors. Let me assure you that the Inquisitor and I are not involved.”

“That’s a relief, hahren,” Jovan said before dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “because we’ve been fucking like teenagers these past few weeks. For a moment back there I thought we’d made a cuckold of you.”

“Your concerns are both crass and unnecessary.”

“Abelas, abelas, I…I just. Vhenan’s a heavy word. Ma’sa never said anything about anyone else, and I was so glad to have her back I didn’t ask any questions and…Well, it’s a relief is all.”

“The Inquisitor has lost an extraordinary amount of blood. She is apart from herself.”

“Yeah. Yeah, she’s in bad shape, but she’s pulled through worse. I mean, she survived that explosion.”

“Her injuries following the conclave were magical in nature, requiring my expertise, but this? This is purely physical, blunt trauma that even a human surgeon could manage.”

He continued to trickle healing magic through my veins, oblivious that he’d played right into Jovan’s hand, revealing himself as the mage who saved me— elvhen. But ma’sa said nothing, biding his time. I lolled my head to the side and when my vision cleared I found Jovan cross-legged by the fire, braiding his hair as if he hadn’t a care in the world but his own vanity.

Solas ran his fingertips along the scars on my scalp with a sigh, “Inquisitor, who healed you?”

With some effort, I turned to face him, managing the words, “Death magic.”

“I was unaware you could raise the dead to treat your injuries. These are fine stitches.”

“Saw it in the Fade.”

A fit of giggles consumed me, tearing at something in my chest, but gods it seemed terribly funny. How he kept his secrets and expected none from me. The laughter gave way to coughing, the taste of blood, and Solas lifting me to sit before I could choke. Then a rough cloth was wiped across my mouth and the rim of a mug pressed to my lips. Blood lotus, sleep.

Solas eased me back down into the bed, pausing to untangle the fingers I’d wound up in the cords of his amulet. His expression turned sharp.

“And what sort of healer strangles his patient?”

Through half-lidded eyes I saw the breath of his question hanging like a cloud, but I was too far gone to answer. He cocked his head to the side and reached toward me, slowly shifting to match the pattern of what he saw until he arrived at a perfect approximation of Justice with one hand coiled around my throat.

“Shem, by the size of it,” said Jovan, coming to stand behind him. “No more than an hour old, bruise hasn’t even purpled.”

Solas glanced over his shoulder, perhaps catching his first hint of suspicious, but Jovan only shrugged.

“You ever been kicked by a halla? No one feels sorry for you til the color turns. Doesn’t matter, the blighter’s dead now.”

“I wish that were so, but I suspect she spared him.”

“How soft do you think she is? She’s been killing shem since she was twelve.”

“If the Inquisitor thought she owed a man her life, she would not take it.”

“I don’t know how Souveri plays this Herald of Andraste thing, but she’s no Chantry sister.”

“On that point we can agree.”

Jovan was grinding down his patience, but it all seemed impossibly far away, like something overheard in a tavern. Then there was a warm pressure against the skin at my hip, the _shhhrrrrppp_ of cotton giving way to a blade, fresh air against my belly, and stillness— the remaining bandages uncut.

“Perhaps you should wait outside, da’len.”

“I’d prefer to watch.”

“Whatever your relationship to the Inquisitor, I see no reason why treating her injuries should require an audience.”

“Relax, she loves that sort of shit. I mean,” he cleared his throat, “an audience.”

“Get out.”

“Oh, the possessive type? Here I thought we could share.”

“The Inquisitor is not a thing to be possessed or shared.”

“You say that, but wait till you’ve got her balls deep and sucking another ma—”

Solas flew to his feet. There was a tumbling and a sudden thud, then Jovan wheezing around his own laughter. I willed my eyes open and saw him pinned against the wall by nothing but gravity gone wrong. His smile consumed him, curling Elgar’nan’s mask.

“There we go. She _said_ you had teeth.”

“I should thank you, child. I had spent time with few of your people before this. From the stories, I thought you all thuggish, simple and crude. Now? Now I know I was right.”

“Don’t let that bare face fool you, hahren. She’s Dalish to the core.”

“Is she?”

I scraped against the veil, refusing to lose consciousness, but my body felt adrift. Panic burned away all the dreamy sentiment to leave only the man who’d left me bare in Crestwood, and the sure knowledge that he’d throw the truth about vallaslin in Jovan’s face because there was nothing he loved more than being right.

I strained to find my feet. “Solas, please don’t—”

“…hurt him?” Jovan finished, suddenly behind me with a knife at my throat. “Alright, let’s try this again.”

Solas spun, caught completely unawares by a trick better suited to Cole. “Do you think I am concerned? She could slip from your grasp in a heartbeat.”

“But she won’t. Souveri, do you remember what it means to have a knife at your throat?”

 _Ar lath ma._ “Yes.”

“Good girl,” he said, patronizing on the surface but relieved underneath; when he exhaled he smelled of vandal aria.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been agonizing on this chapter for a shameful period of time, one because it's so far out of canon that I'm just like _woah,_ but two because both Solas and Jovan have their Game Faces on so it's weird to write a three way conversation where two of the characters are pretending to be someone else....Anyhow....I love you guys. Thanks for reading along and waiting this out with me. Hope this isn't a train wreck


	80. Felassan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is inspired by a couple of things, one being the extremely intimidating, antagonistic, and menacing tone Solas immediately cops when he meets with Mihris. The other is my own experience in being forced to develop working relationships with at least three of my exes (spoiler alert: not fun) and the way that distance caused me to second guess everything from why we broke up to what I ever saw in the first place.

Panic melted my pain and fatigue, a shock of ice water that left me breathless and alert. I didn’t know what he was playing at, but Jovan had surely caught a hint of my disloyalty in Solas' subtle challenge. Or had he only fixated on how I’d seemingly leapt to his defense? He’d got me wrong, though. I didn't fear Solas would hurt ma'sa, I feared he'd destroy him.

Despair heightened my senses— he still might. Told in malice, the truth of our vallaslin was a slavery of its own. Just another way for the elvhen to control our history, deny our agency, spit on our ancestors, the first generation of elves privileged to choose what their parents could not. If it were ever to be accepted, the truth couldn't come from the flat ear who hated us.

Jovan held me close, one arm snaked around my hips and the other laid across my collarbone, his dagger a firm line of pressure that bit into my skin when I swallowed. For his part, Solas seemed perfectly at ease aside from a thread of irritation that drew his brows together. He took a calming breath, pursed his lips.

“Inquisitor, forgive my lack of concern, but your life is in no danger.”

Jovan purred with amusement behind me. “You don’t understand what’s happening here, do you? She’s harellan, old man. She spat on Mythal, gave the Well of Sorrows to a shem, and came home a bare faced liar. The only reason she’s alive now is that our Keeper invoked vir sulevanin.”

My stomach dropped; whatever Solas read in my expression, something shifted in his pale eyes. He didn’t have say it, the command was written in every fiber of his being: _go!_

Jovan immediately shifted closer, “Who's got faster reflexes?”

My whole universe split against the burning edge of his knife, so sharp it felt like an inexplicable brightness rather than pain at all. Only the unmistakeable bloodsong of magic spilling from my veins told me that I’d been cut. If I so much as twitched my fingers to fold the veil…

It wasn’t pretend anymore. Jovan bet his life on me the first night I’d come home, and I could only hope that he meant me to return the favor. But gods, he danced along the script of my nightmares on the Waking Sea. Too close, far too close.

“Ma’sa,” my voice caught between faith and doubt. Jovan _could_ say ‘ar lath ma’ with a knife but, oh, I’d have never lied in the first place if I didn’t know how he’d say goodbye.

Solas spoke before I could even catch my breath, his voice low and menacing. “Ma harel, da’len.”

It wasn’t even directed at me, but his severity raised the hairs on the back of my neck. However many times circumstance churned up the darkness within him, I’d never known Solas to call it up at will. The shadows all around seemed to deepen, and I could feel the veil gathering around him. If he stepped through the fade to fetch me, he’d leave an icy corpse in his wake.

Even so, the rise and fall of Jovan’s chest against my back remained steady and calm, while my own breaths came in too shallow, too fast; I was hyperventilating.

“Easy, easy,” Jovan soothed, feathering a kiss against my shaved scalp. “I’ve poisoned you, don’t get your heart rate up. Which means, hahren, fuck with me she’s dead.”

“What does your Keeper want?”

“Answers.”

“Then you shall have them.”

The tip of Jovan’s blade touched the underside of my chin, tilting my head back into his shoulder. “Don’t take your eyes off him, mage.”

 _Knifey_ remained unspoken between us, all too real in the brilliant point pressed beneath my jaw. If I opened my mouth to say anything, I’d have driven it home. Instead, I made a soft sound in the back of my throat and prayed it didn’t sound like a whimper.

“When were you born?”

He didn’t hesitate to answer what I’d never been brave enough to ask, “Eight: ninety five, Blessed.”

“I’m not a Chantry scholar, add it up for me. How old?”

“Forty seven.”

“Your name-day?”

“Solace first,” he said, a date that snapped into place so easily I didn’t have to imagine how a mother might have chosen to honor the occasion. “And do you wish to know the constellation of my birth?”

“Nah. Just figuring out how many years you got on her old man, pervert.”

Solas dropped his eyes to the rug. I might have imagined the corners of his mouth twitching down, but the color flushing high along the blade of his ear wasn’t firelight. I’d never seen him embarrassed, a look so unrehearsed, so untempered by The Game, that for a moment there was no mask at all. Just a man, not ancient but aged.

Dark crescents hung beneath his eyes and shadows pooled in the hollow of each cheek; the pallor of his complexion spoke of a difficult journey. I could almost see him buried in the hold of some ship, barred from peace in the Fade by the drunk and frantic dreams of sailors and soldiers all around...

“Hey. No sleeping, not yet, da’harellan,” said Jovan, biting my ear until my eyes snapped wide. “You were with her at the Well of Sorrows?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“We found the temple protected by a high priest of Mythal, an elvhen who fell into uthenera after serving the goddess incarnate. Against his advice, the Inquisitor entered the Well of Sorrows. A thousand voices called out from the deep, revealing the human mage in our midst to be the daughter of Asha’bellanar, the chosen of Mythal.”

There was no risk I’d fall into sleep again, I was electrified by his casual conviction.

“Souveri said no such thing.”

“She is wise not to spark a pilgrimage that would bring countless innocents to Skyhold at a time when we brace for battle. The facts will stand up to your Keeper’s scrutiny. The witch Morrigan was a known companion to the Hero of Ferelden, and her mother infamous throughout southern Thedas as Flemeth, though your people revere her by a different name.”

I was utterly stunned. I’d never considered the stories about Flemeth anything more than human adaptation of elven lore, a grasping attempt to claim Asha’bellanar as their own. However many times I’d read _Tale of the Champion,_ I’d always envisioned a mighty elven mage. Had Varric actually described her as such?

Jovan twisted, pressing his lips against my neck, giving his voice the barest whisper. “Is it true?”

“It is.” It was, even if it never occurred to me before.

“What happened to her vallaslin?”

Oh, gods, he was relentless. I wet my lips, wishing I could beg Solas not to take this last thing from me. He met my gaze, smiling as softly as he had that night by the waterfall. _You are so beautiful,_ he’d said, but that had only been a kindness to soften the blow of what would follow. Tears spilled as soon as I blinked. In another heartbeat, it would be over.

“The Inquisitor waded into the Well of Sorrows, and by the following sundown her vallaslin were gone.”

“How?”

“By faith,” said Solas, as sincere as I’d ever heard him. “She has known divinity since Haven, but only after the Temple of Mythal could she surrender herself to it. By that devotion she has been made pure, beloved and precious to a god. She has witnessed the truth of ancient Arlathan, and in her own time its fullness will be revealed to The People.”

He spoke with such authority that for a moment I felt as if Crestwood had been a nightmare and this gorgeous lie the truth. I stared at him wide eyed, gutted by the ease with which he framed the deepest betrayal I’d ever known as a blessing from Mythal.

Creators, had he bluffed Abelas as well?

My confidence began to crumble. Everything felt so undeniably _real_ at the Well of Sorrows, but in a dingy shemlen tavern, away from the raw magic of the Arbor Wilds and the fevered confusion I’d carried since Crestwood, Solas seemed no more or less the man Varric wouldn’t trust in a game of Wicked Grace. 

“You know that for a fact.” Jovan’s grip on the knife went slack. It wasn’t a question or a demand, but a sort of awestruck realization. “Why’s she so afraid of you?”

He looked stricken, but only for an instant. “She does not fear me, she fears what she has become.”

“Solas, stop.” It was all I could manage before Jovan twitched the blade enough to remind me that he was still hunting.

“What does that even mean?”

Solas wasn’t looking at Jovan any more, but I wasn’t sure he was looking at me either. Through me, perhaps. He’d gone half adrift in the Fade, I could hear it in the cadence of his voice. Which meant he was playing the mystic, giving himself time to consider every word, twisting his scorn for Dalish belief to mock and protect me at the same time.

“She has become much more than a would-be shepherd to a lost and forgotten flock. She holds the key to our salvation, one that cannot be surrendered. Reclaiming the orb may cost everything, but The People can afford no less. This is the terrible burden of a god, a duty that cannot be lifted from her shoulders.”

It was more than I could bear, and I tried to wrench myself from Jovan's arms. He held me fast, but eased up with the blade.

“Is that why you tricked me in Crestwood, to force my hand? Fuck you, Fen’Harel. I wouldn’t have faltered.”

“No,” he said. “But I very nearly did. I intended to steal you away, slip through a rift. Let Corypheus swallow the world and all we hold dear. In the raw Fade, we could live for eternity in another world, hidden within its infinite depths. That was his plan, vhenan. The man in Redcliffe who knew another way. He was a selfish coward, I assure you.”

I’d no idea if it were the truth or another performance— apparently there was no lie he could not bend the world to reflect. But that exact sort of reckless desperation had given me strength to say _cast your spell._

Jovan whistled under his breath. “Must have been some trick, hahren.”

“It was not a trick, Rial.”

“No, it was a gift! My gift to you. Me giving up everything to be at your side, and you spitting in my face.”

“Cole,” he said softly, “has made that painfully clear. I failed to realize it was a symbol you held dear or that it was given in sacred trust."

"What would you do without a spirit of Compassion? You have none of your own. You bent over backwards to see Ostagar from both sides, but gods forbid you ever consider a Dalish perspective."

"Emma ir abelas, I should never have taken it from you."

“Obviously you're not talking about her virginity.”

I sagged in Jovan's arms. He'd surely known all along if he pushed and pulled enough, one of us would break and it would all come spilling out. It didn't matter anymore. I'd died three days before, and I would die again one day soon. I saw no reason to keep fighting for a place in the world, I was a ghost.

Solas tucked two fingers into the high collar of his undershirt and paused, his eyebrow raised in question. Jovan brushed my ear nodding his consent, and Solas fished deeper, pulling out a fine obsidian chain. One sharp pull, then he held it at arm’s length. The necklace swayed to and fro with a hypnotic rhythm, weighted in the middle by my sylvanwood ring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those doing the math at home, my head canon is that Rial’s dad was 18 when she was born. She was 25 at the time of the conclave, so presuming DAI spans at least a year she's 26 by now, making her father 44 and Solas bluffing at 47 (PW intended him appear in his mid-40s). Given the mortality rates in a medieval world, particularly among a nomadic people, it’s old enough to justify elves half his age considering him “hahren,” even if this is not "old" to us now. 
> 
> Also: there is a month called Solis/Solace. Anybody wanna bet how that name came about? XD
> 
> If you're into the spookiness of necromancy, check out Karininini's painting of [Rial and Amalia,](http://karininini.tumblr.com/post/117614754471/trying-a-new-style-and-painting-process-with-no) well, er, her skull at least. <3
> 
> On a lighter note, Deedy Loves Cake made [this hysterical comic](http://deedylovescake.tumblr.com/post/118450343769/outtakes-of-jovan-doing-his-best-to-provoke) of Jovan antagonizing Fen'Harel, and also another [dashing portrait](http://deedylovescake.tumblr.com/post/118564593399/oohh-this-guy-jovan-were-so-blessed) of my favorite Dalish rogue.


	81. Dirthara’ma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Have you ever been really, really mad for a really, really good reason, and then you just hit a certain point and you're so tired and confused you just can't sustain it anymore, and suddenly feeling anything at all is too much effort? Rial's hit that point.

He’d come prepared then, wearing my sylvanwood ring like a prop.

Not once had he ever acknowledged taking it, but I’d always known. There was so much I’d always known, and so much I’d let myself forget. Like his dripping disdain for the elves after our victory in Halamshiral, or the condescending smile he reserved for the occasions I spoke of my faith.

Jovan eyed the ring, but made no move to touch it. He understood its significance far more than Solas ever would. He’d been there as I scrambled to pull it off my Keeper’s finger before the burning aravel took it with her, when it hadn’t even begun to give until her hand was soaked in blood and…

I was smothering under the veil, Fade-touched thoughts encroaching on the waking world as whatever toxin Jovan painted on his knife finally had its way. His tightened his grip around my waist as my knees gave out, but I’d no doubt his eyes remained fixed on Solas.

“Which god do you serve?”

“The one bleeding in your arms,” Solas spat, his anger unleashed as I’d only ever seen it once before. “If you pray, pray for mercy. Elgar’nan knows nothing of vengeance compared to the god whose Herald you threaten. Every pain she suffers echoes through the Fade, taunting the one whose power gives her life.”

Solas invoked blasphemies I didn’t dare to speak, repackaging my clumsy bluff into something Jovan couldn’t help but believe. Ma’sa played The Game as skillfully as an Orlesian, but he was hamstrung by my ill-advised confession. If he’d doubted Solas was elvhen, he believed it now.

I could feel it in the way he held me, in the uptick of his heart against my back, in the quickness of each breath. He often approached the gods as only a rogue could, but Jovan was as devout as any Dalish. His voice dropped to the barest whisper.

“Who are you?”

“Dirthara’ma.”

A blur of light consumed my vision and I nearly fell to my knees, suddenly unsupported. It took a second to pivot around, yet another to realize that Solas had Fade stepped through me to pin Jovan against the wall. Only this time, the faint glow of a paralysis rune lit the darkness.

“Where is it,” Solas demanded, one hand holding my lethallin’s dagger against his own throat and the other skimming along his leathers as if Jovan were fool enough to craft a poison whose antidote could be stolen.

I staggered forward, throwing out an arm to catch myself against Solas even as I spent the last of my mana to slip a barrier between Jovan and the knife. There was little chance Solas would kill him, but the gesture mattered. To them both, albeit in different ways.

“Let him go, Solas.” 

He didn’t want to, but after delivering that pile of halla shit about my godhood he could hardly say no. The glyph binding Jovan dissolved and he glided from the wall as gracefully as if he’d always meant to be there. Without even pausing to acknowledge anything that had happened, he cupped my face in his hands, tipping my head back as his mouth met my throat. 

The vandal aria on his tongue felt effervescent against the open wound, a fizzy tingle of flesh knitting together with the alchemy of a Tempest. He kissed me then, a gesture laced with more than an antidote, but a goodbye. Even if I lived, nothing would be the same once the orb was recovered.

Jovan’s gaze flickered from me to Solas, and I wondered if that’s how I’d looked at Abelas in the Temple of Mythal— awed and expectant. He mustered a shadow of his usual grin, the corners weighted by every lie he’d mistaken for the truth. 

“Ir abelas,” he hesitated, tracing his thumb along the memory of my vallaslin. "What should I tell Fennehn?"

I wouldn't say anything in front of Solas, but I leveled Jovan with a look he wouldn't misunderstand. I'd died. Nothing would come of the night I'd spent with Fennehn, the tie Deshanna thought would keep my loyalties from drifting too far into shemlen politics. He worked his jaw and I thought for a moment he'd surely say something else, but instead he simply walked out the door.

It was only then that I realized I’d been hanging onto Solas all along, his tunic fisted tightly in my Anchored hand. I stared at it longer than I should have, as if it belonged to someone else and not me, then willed my fingers to unfurl. I forced my hand to my side, blinked back the pain that bubbled up with the battle behind me. There would be another battle yet. There always was with Solas whenever the Dalish were concerned.

“Inquisitor.”

The obsidian chain was coiled up in his outstretched palm, my sylvanwood ring resting on top. I thought of the night before Halamshiral when I’d gone drinking with Blackwall, how I’d crawled into bed with Solas, for once too naked and drunk to pretend that he'd ever meant to stay.

“I already said you can keep it.”

“It wouldn’t be right.” His voice was as soft as it had been in Haven, in Crestwood, as it ever was when he took the high road.

“I can’t take it back. I can’t take back anything that I’ve given you, or anything that I’ve said.”

“In Arlathan, this ring—”

“Good. See? It means something to you that has nothing to do with me. Keep it. I’d rather it not be lost when I…”

I stepped back, my eyes dropping down to my bare stomach where the bandaging had been cut away. It was smeared in still-damp blood with stitches crisscrossed over mottled purple skin. Gods. I really was on borrowed time. I looked up when a tendril of healing magic sank into my bones.

“What do you think I have been researching all this time? I will find a way to keep you safe, Rial. The orb will not claim you as the Well did Morrigan.”

I gave him a weak laugh; it was true if only because he was too damned responsible to let some ancient being take possession of the Anchor.

“She’s not dead, Solas.”

“She might as well be! Her free will died the moment she gave herself into the service of an ancient elvhen god,” he shouted, and I fell back a pace in shock; he was livid, his ears all but flattened back like an angry dog.

“You don’t even believe in the Creators!”

“I don’t believe they were gods, no, but I believe that they existed! Something existed to start the legends! If not gods, then mages, or spirits, or something we’ve never seen. I will not allow you to be bound to one of them!”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. I tried again. “ _You_ won’t allow it? Who are you to fucking decide? If that’s what it takes to stop Corypheus, so be it! I was raised to serve the gods.”

“Not all of them,” he countered, ever the expert at using my own beliefs against me.

I mopped a hand across my forehead. Creators, fuck. Fennehn knew it, Jovan knew it, Solas knew it. I was the only one still pretending that there was still some outside chance that…

“At least that would mean it’s finally over.”

“And what if it’s not? What if it is not your death that’s required, but your life? Corypheus told you the Anchor was permanent, what if this so-called god requires you for some purpose?”

“I’d rather serve a god of The People than suffocate in Andraste’s shadow.”

“Would you join Andruil on the hunt, serve as her hound, kill innocents for sport? Would you raze entire villages to satisfy Falon’Din, sow destruction for Elgar’nan, pour your magic into Sylaise’s fire, smother children to preserve the secrets of Dirthamen—”

“They’re locked away. Powerless. The orb doesn’t belong to them.”

“My point remains,” he said, calming his temper at last. “You know nothing of what a ‘god’ might ask. Do not be so eager to relinquish the power of consent.”

I wanted to argue, to say it would be an act of worship, but he was right. Even if he was playing me as he’d played Jovan, I couldn’t deny that kernel of truth. If we’d forgotten slavery in Elvhenan, the purpose of vallaslin, the madness of the Creators, what atrocities had Fen’Harel committed for his reputation to endure?

The Betrayer. Dread Wolf. Bringer of Nightmares. Lord of Tricksters. Was he whispering to Corypheus from the shadows in the guise of Dumat, just as Corypheus called to the Wardens?

“Cre—” I couldn’t even say it. The word had lost all meaning.

I lowered myself to the faded rug, too tired to pretend I’d prefer a shemlen bed. I wanted something hard and sturdy beneath me, not the formlessness of shifting feathers. I was so, so tired of trying find my footing in a make-believe world.

I’d spent my entire life pretending that being Dalish somehow made me more than just another fucking knife ear, that our history was any more credible than a fairy tale, that one day we'd restore what was lost, and I was pretending still— that I had any faith left in the Creators, that I'd done anything to earn the Anchor, that shemlen history books wouldn't round my ears as easily as Solas erased my vallaslin. There would be nothing left of me when it was over because there was nothing to me in the first place. I was exactly what Abelas said, a shadow playing in the woods.

I kept pretending that I'd accomplished something for The People in Halamshiral when I'd done nothing but put another shemlen Emperor on the throne. Shartan's rebellion couldn't even hold the Dales a fraction of the time Abelas spent in uthenera, but I was blithe enough to pretend Briala could reshape Orlais in a few short decades. It was no wonder Solas wanted nothing to do with the elves when I'd crowed my short sighted "victory."

I could only imagine how petty he thought me for abandoning the Inquisition just to overthrown the Duke of some insignificant city-state. Without Lady Volant's constant support in the negotiations, the Lords of Wycome would have labeled it an elven rebellion, a humbling reminder that however well I pretended to play The Game, I would always require a human chaperone.

"Solas, I'm so sorry. You came here to help, and I brought a Dalish shitstorm straight to your door. If we were still...I would never have asked you to lie for me. I know it's all The Game, but everything you said? Ma serannas."

"Do not thank me. One day, you will look back and wish I said nothing at all."

I managed a little huff of amusement. "I've been Herald long enough to handle a few more people thinking I've gained the favor of a god. I'm only sorry that it forced you to play Shartan to my Andraste."

Solas sat down beside me, swiped his forefinger and thumb from the corner of his eyes to the bridge of his nose, refocusing his mana. He reached into the folds of his shirt and produced a vial of lyrium, swallowing the whole thing in a go and wiping the back of one hand across his mouth.

Seeing him so exhausted, I couldn’t keep pretending he was anything more than a man, or that I was anything more than a child dreaming up an elvhen mystery to replace a truth far more mundane: he'd simply wanted out. I’d let the accolades of the Inquisition stoke my ego to the point of madness if I thought mortality was my only flaw. As if an agnostic hermit wouldn’t have a thousand reasons to chafe beside the most famous elf in Thedas, a Dalish First part and parcel to the sort of superstitious nonsense he'd chosen a life of seclusion to avoid.

My heart squeezed into something small and tight. I’d cobbled a relationship out of nothing but loneliness and lust glued together with the unspeakable stress of the Inquisition, but when it all fell apart I’d acted like I was entitled to something more from the man who’d only ever promised _it would be kinder in the long run…_

“Here,” he said, gathering me into his arms and settling my back against his broad chest. The magic came stronger, bright and fast from lyrium, and I watched as my body pushed out the stitches it no longer needed.

Relaxing into his arms I thought perhaps that’s all he’d ever intended to be, the bit of binding that held me together when I was coming apart at the seams. Temporary. Impermanent. Shem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of the things I miss about DA2 is the rivalmance because so many of the disapproval conversations with Solas shed light on his character in a way a friendly/romanced Lavellan never gets to see. Like when the Inquisitor says that Solas sounds like he's about to jump ship, or when Solas gets unhinged and calls the Inquisitor a demi-god reveling in adoration from the ignorant masses. So I incorporated a bit of his rant against the Well of Sorrows into their argument because I think someday this conversation will mean so much more to Rial.
> 
> And yeah, I'm presuming a lot of clan politics went down in the weeks following the Duke's murder....
> 
> In other news, I was out of town for over a week and didn't have any chance to write at all and when I came back it was to an embarrassment of riches!! Laurence over at Apostate Dreams made [Sparkle Rial,](http://apostatedreams.tumblr.com/post/119346534233/rial-from-apotheosis) and Osatokun brought that whole [Rial sucking Solas' finger](http://osatokun.tumblr.com/post/119897946928/fanart-of-rial-from-apotheosis-3-and-solass) thing to life. Then Chickens.Quack did this suuuuuper amazing [portrait of Jovan](http://chickensquack.tumblr.com/post/119190599075/jovan-apotheosis) and this [sexy ass](http://chickensquack.tumblr.com/post/119190664785/lethallin-apotheosis-chap-6) rendition of Rial and Solas that night in the hot spring.
> 
> I'm a tumblr idiot, so if I've missed anybody's beautiful art let me know!!!!
> 
> Also, shout out to my homegirl Froobie who posted her first ever [fanfic!!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4021213/chapters/9038692)


	82. Solas was a Painter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the most positive outcome for the Protect Clan Lavellan quest, Keeper Deshanna ends up on the (mixed race) city council of Wycome, which is pretty outrageous when you think about it. An elven mage in a position of power in a human city? It's especially wild considering human noble mages aren't even allowed to inherit their parents titles. I'd like to think something like that would be a turning point in elven politics....

I followed Cullen to the port at dawn, amused with the way dockworkers and fishmongers scattered from his path. Armored boots rapped out the measured purpose of his gait, one beat for every two made in my bare feet— I’d forgotten how much effort it took to match pace with a human.

The sky had just begun to tint in the east, its vibrancy muted to dusty rose by the smoke billowing from morning fires lit by smithies and bakers and Chantry sisters alike. It was the last sunrise I’d see in the Marches; not the glory of Elgara vaulting up over the Minanter, but a simple star whose light dimmed beneath the veil of shemlen civilization.

A part of me wished I’d never come back, that my memories of Lavellan would remain as aravels in the woods, not Deshanna beneath a garishly painted vhenadahl or my father tossing Sylaise’s herbs into a human kiln. It was not a future I’d ever imagined for them.

“You did the right thing in coming here,” said Cullen, perhaps noticing my frown. “Marlowe Dumar meant well, but he was criminally negligent in allowing the Qunari to fester. Kirkwall tore itself apart when he died, and we had but one red lyrium monster to contend with.”

I blinked back my surprise. Cullen hadn’t objected to the Inquisition remaining in Wycome through the emergency election of a city council to replace the Duke, but I hadn’t considered any motivation beyond respect for Andraste’s Herald.

Fuck, I hadn’t considered any motivation beyond protecting my clan. When things went to shit, elves took the blame, and I couldn’t leave until I was certain the humans wouldn’t retaliate the moment I turned my back. I didn’t often play The Game with my advisors, but it wouldn’t do to expose my own shortsightedness.

“If the Venatori secured Wycome, they would have aimed for some other city-state soon after. Not the chaos of a fallen Orlais, but sufficient to divide our allies. Corypheus never takes the same approach twice; for the time being, I think we can rest easy.”

“What you’ve done here may sweep change across the Free Marches.”

“We had cause to oust the Duke, but shy of inciting rebellion I don’t anticipate it happening elsewhere.”

“Talk to Varric, Inquisitor. His connections in Kirkwall control the alienage and city guard alike, not to mention the undercity,” he added with a grumble. “The Viscount’s seat has remained empty for years, there will be no love lost should a city council take its place.”

“You sound like Leliana.”

“It’s no scheme. Kirkwall was my home for a decade, I know her well. The nobles and merchants are ready to take matters of state into their own hands. Should it prove a success, even Starkhaven might follow.”

“You’re joking! Prince Vael has no claim on Kirkwall, but that hasn’t stopped months of bloody siege. He’ll never relinquish his ancestral home.”

“Did you know, I served alongside Brother Sebastian as part of my duties to the Chantry? He’s as devout as Cassandra, seeking only the Maker’s will. The crown sits uneasy on his head. If the Herald of Andraste herself were to show him a better path…”

I dropped my gaze to pick my way through the piles of frigid seaweed and steaming fish guts that littered the water-slicked pier, buying a moment of contemplation. From anyone else, it would have smacked of manipulation, but Cullen was a man of faith.

It was vanity to think a whispered suggestion here and there might accomplish more than my ancestors achieved in Halamshiral…Yet so much good could be brought to The People with the shemlen aristocracy dismantled. Especially if it were done without bloody rebellion, if it carried the legitimacy of the Inquisition.

“We’ll have a good deal to discuss on the voyage home, Commander.”

“I am glad to hear it. These things are perhaps mundane compared to preparations for battle against an ancient magister, but just as vital.” 

Vital.

It was hard to think of Deshanna’s decision to relocate Lavellen within the walls of Wycome as vital, and yet I knew it to be so. Her election to city council was unprecedented— my own rise within the Inquisition had been determined by no vote but the Anchor. At last the Dalish held a winning hand, yet I couldn’t escape a staggering sense of loss.

Lavellan would change the face of Wycome, but it would swallow them whole.

To imagine my sisters accepting wages, _wages!_ , to serve the city guard, or some shemlen haggling with Cailon over the price of halla wool, my Keeper healing for coin…They’d still have their vallaslin, but what would make them Dalish aside from a continued belief in gods likely no more divine than Corypheus?

Squawking seagulls pulled me from my reverie. The Commander twisted to glance down over the wisps of fur blown up from his pauldrons, a half formed smile tugging at the scar across his lip. He fidgeted absently at the pommel of his sword.

“You truly don’t know why I’ve brought you here?”

“Honestly. It’s been nothing but politicking for city council all week. That and sitting through one Chantry service after the next. I think Threnodies is starting to grow on me.”

Whether it pleased him to consider the Chant falling fertile on my knife-ears or that I’d yet to catch wind of his secret, Cullen’s smile widened. He gestured out toward a sleek ship sitting low in the water, sails still curled against the yards of each mast. 

“In that case, my Lady Herald,” he cleared his throat to adopt a more regal tone. “On behalf of King Alistair Theirin, in thanks for the liberation of Redcliffe Castle, and in gratitude for the mercy bestowed upon the Grey Wardens at Adamant, may I present to you, the _Peacekeeper._ ”

As if pulled by some compulsion, I walked past Cullen to the end of the pier. My toes curled around the edge of a worn wooden plank as I gaped, completely at a loss for words. This ship itself was magnificent, which should have made praising it a simple matter, but the figurehead was so obviously, undeniably _me_ that my mouth went dry. I’d never seen myself in anything but a mirror.

I ran my fingers through the short crop of hair that no longer covered my burning ears, unsettled by the obvious devotion given to its subject. She…it was worked from sylvanwood, left arm outstretched beneath the bowspirt, palm glowing with a knot of enchanted veridium to match the carefully inlaid vallaslin.

Even if only in a bit of wood carved by some shemlen boatwright, I was secretly pleased some record of who I was would remain. Solas was a painter, but he’d never painted me— the figure of a Dalish mage was conspicuously absent from the murals of Skyhold.

“The King does us a great honor. I’ve never,” I swallowed. “I’ve never seen such craftsmanship.”

“She’s magnificent. I, ah. The ship. She’ll make twenty knots in fair weather, thirty with mages aboard.”

About the speed of an aravel, though I didn’t say so; human ships were so enormous I always expected them to be exponentially faster. Prior to the Inquisition, I’d set foot on a boat exactly once, a Marcher cargo ships that took me from Wycome to Amaranthine.

“It looks something like the vessel that sails from Jader to Val Royeaux.”

“Yes, a clipper ship, but of a newer design. She leans into the wind at top speed, so she’s broader across the stern to help with buoyancy.”

“What you’re saying is she has a nice aft.”

Jovan loved an easy target, and Cullen was a lamb. Though he didn’t blush as readily as Leliana so often claimed, he’d somehow emerged from life in the barracks as easily flustered as a Chantry initiate. By the time he turned around, Jovan was making his way down the pier with eyes fixed firmly on the ship.

“Er, yes,” the commander acknowledged. “Good morning to you, Guard Captain Lavellan.”

I suspect the title grated on all our ears. I’d killed the old Guard Captain and a number of his soldiers in our raid on the Duke’s estate, but Marchers were a sturdy folk. A healthy respect for the right of conquest made the remaining rank an file surprisingly open to an infusion of Dalish hunters.

It took little more than a round of dueling with blunted blades to sort out the new order of things. Not that Cullen was so confident the arrangement would hold that he didn’t reassign Lieutenant Chambreterre to Wycome as an Inquisition liaison.

“Commander Cullen. Ir abelas for the intrusion, but Keeper Istimaethoriel sent me to deliver a few of the Fen’Herald’s belongings.”

“Yes, the steward’s on board alre— what was that?”

“A bit of a Dalish humor,” I said flatly. “Can you spare us a moment, Cullen?”

“Ah, of course. I’ll meet you back at the tavern. I’ve a bit of paperwork to finalize for Rozellene’s transfer.”

“Thank you,” I said, counting the steps until he fell from human earshot. “Why do you say shit like that?”

Jovan shrugged. “Ignoring what you’re afraid of won’t make it less real.”

“Says the man who’s been ignoring me all week.”

“I have five da’len to look after. It’s not camp, I can’t let them run amok.”

“Only two are yours.”

“That’s the shemest shit I’ve ever heard.”

“You know what I mean, Jhodas is there too. You could have come.”

“And mock your vhenan?”

“Jovan, gods, I don’t know what else to tell you. We fucked. We said the sorts of things people say after. It’s just a word.”

“You don’t believe that.”

Heat crept high on my cheeks, inescapable embarrassment at how much I’d once read into a pet name. We called each other many things, but I was no more Tyrdda than he was Fen’Harel, and vhenan was only an oath among the Dalish.

“It wasn’t serious.”

“He’d die for you, how is that not serious?”

“It _is_ serious, but Solas risked his life to join the Inquisition before we even met. He’s given more to the cause than anyone.”

“To you,” he said, matter-of-fact. “The Inquisition was nothing but shem politics til you fell from the sky.”

“Why are you so fixated on this?”

Jovan raked his fingers through his hair, looking for all the world like he was ready to tear out a fistful.

“Sweet gods, why are you not? He’s…” he trailed off, too much a rogue to carelessly drop a word like _elvhen,_ but the sharp arc of his eyebrow made his point all the same. “That could mean everything for our people.”

Jovan was caught up in the same rush of potential I’d seen in Abelas, but far more shrewd. He didn’t want dusty tomes, he wanted elvhen blood to flow in Dalish veins. But I’d been as wrong about that as I’d been about everything else.

“He cares nothing for our people.”

“Yet he loves _you_!”

“Halam! He walked away, I won’t pretend that’s love.”

“You sound like Adahlen.”

I let the words blow past, bits of meaningless noise. I’d left everything and everyone I held dear so that Adahlen would never have to. She was a barefaced child too young to understand it was duty, not desire, that sent me from the clan. I was shaken at his audacity in suggesting that sacrifice compared anything at all to Solas growing weary of my bed, as if only some conspiracy could explain my failure to hold his heart.

“Dareth shiral, ma’sa,” I said, lacking the strength to argue. I’d poisoned Jovan with so many lies it was my own fault that he couldn’t taste the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so concludes the mission in Wycome! Thanks to everyone who stuck through this *incredibly long* AU portion. I'll return to canon (and Skyhold) in the next chapter.


	83. Skyhold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At long last, the return to Skyhold! Having lived abroad long-term, this chapter is definitely pulling from my experience with culture shock. In the first six months I thought I'd "seen it all" and totally adjusted, then around 18 months in it sort of turned me inside out. Give that was just a typical American reaction to living in Japan, I figured a Dalish Inquisitor's experience would be exponentially more intense given the weight she carries on her shoulders.

Cullen and I rode out ahead of the party that accompanied us from Jader, speaking in hushed tones as we broke a trail through fresh-fallen snow. A raven had come at first light, bringing news that Venatori holdouts had massacred a regiment of Inquisition soldiers in the Western Approach.

“What’s he getting at,” I asked, staring off into the misty morning. “Griffon Wing Keep is secure, the tunnels beneath Coracavus are sealed, even the ruins of Adamant have been destroyed. Corypheus could retake the entire Approach and gain nothing.”

"A victory is a victory. If he can rally his troops after their loss in the Arbor Wilds while demoralizing our own…” Cullen trailed off, sour at the idea. “Then again, it may be diversionary.”

“I don’t think Leliana's scouts even sleep, but we should ask her to keep an ear to the ground for movement along other fronts. In the mean time, I’d rather station our troops close to home; I’ll not let the Venatori thin our forces.”

Cullen exhaled with a strangled sound in the back of his throat. “And allow them to continue hounding our troops?”

“Or exhaust themselves trying. They have no lyrium, we’ve seen to that. The Keep will hold.”

“For how long?”

“Longer than the Vints. Griffon Wing has no shortage of fresh water.”

Cresting the final rise along the mountain pass, sharp winds parted the mists and the fortress appeared as suddenly as if it had been conjured from the Fade. At first I registered only its impassive facade, as strange and foreboding as the moment Solas first told me its human name: Skyhold.

The Commander’s voice fell away— I was flung back in time as surely as I’d once gone forward, knee-deep in the snow with Solas cool and distant at my side. I’d stood there staring, a cold knot of dread in my stomach. It seemed the most lonely, desolate mass of stone and ice, all hulking turrets and jagged crenelation. 

The entire Inquisition had whooped and hollered to see it, but I’d felt nothing but disdain. The harsh human shape of it flew against what little I knew of elven ruins, elegant even in their demise, and mocked my own sense of aneth ara. Among the Dalish, safety meant a canopy of leaves above and twisting roots below— life sheltering life, not clinging to sheer rock.

Then the weeks had been rushing past, piling into months, and somehow the place had warmed. I knew the smoothness of every cobblestone beneath my feet, the smell of fresh cut hay in the stables, the sun-gold blaze of a single oak in the bailey...

But those were distant memories. The reality before me felt as safe and secure as a tomb. Inside the walls were crumbling, and what should have been a lawn was trampled to muck. The rooms were filled with cobwebs and dust, dingy canvas still covering someone else’s long-abandoned life. 

“It’s good to be home,” said Cullen, although I missed whatever had come before.

“Tel’arla.”

“Pardon?”

“I mean, you’re quite right,” I said quickly, glad for once that Elven was not a language humans ever bothered to learn. Cullen smiled and urged his mare forward, and my hart quickened his pace to match.

“I expect Josephine has Ser Morris rolling out the red carpet even as we speak.”

“What? Why?”

He chuckled. “You’ve been gone for some time, Inquisitor.”

“Eight weeks.”

I couldn’t number the days we’d been together, but I couldn’t stop counting the ones we’d spent apart. I’d no wish to measure my life by the length of his absence, but I wasn’t certain I’d ever stop marking the days I woke to find myself a stranger, the world around me stranger still.

I’d been wrong about everything. About the gods, the elves and our history, my own damn skin and my traitorous heart. How had I expected Skyhold to remain unchanged? Like everything else I held dear, it was never truly mine. They called me its Lady, but if I were to have children no shemlen court would deed them my keep. 

My misgivings multiplied as Cullen and I crossed the bridge, and it was all I could do not to trail behind until I lost myself among the Chargers. Even before reaching the cool blue shadows beneath the portcullis, the dull roar of the gathered crowd buzzed in my ears: the quiet murmur of servants and Chantry sisters layered with the chatter from soldiers and scouts.

I hesitated just before the gatehouse, sucking in a breath of mountain air against the same bright burst of panic I’d felt when Cassandra dragged me from the Chantry, bound and defenseless, straight into a mob of humans eager to spill my blood. _Knife-ear_ , they’d said. _Maleficar._

Noticing my hart had stopped in his tracks, Cullen brought his Amaranthine charger up short, one hand atop the hilt of his sword as if there were no trouble that could not be slain. 

“Is something amiss?”

“Everything is fine,” I said, smiling to assure him. “Nothing is wrong.”

His eyes narrowed, and I waved him off with a laugh. “It’s fine.”

“Perhaps I should not have let Josephine announce your arrival.”

“No, don’t be silly. I was just thinking about how much paperwork she’ll have waiting for me.”

I slid down from my hart, and Cullen dismounted as well. Whether or not he did so on purpose, when he came to stand before me, I was entirely shielded from the crowd. I always thought of Cullen hunched across the War Table or slumped behind his desk, but toe-to-toe he was damnably tall.

There was a time it would have unnerved me, but the Commander and I had made our peace. I tipped my chin up to meet his gaze, and found him rather grim. I furrowed my brows in a silent question, curious to see him troubled so.

“Your presence at Skyhold has been greatly missed, Inquisitor.”

“I trust you and Leliana had the situation well under control.”

“We certainly kept them busy,” he said, squaring his shoulders. “But troops require more than discipline and strength. Without hope, well. Despair can rot an army from the inside out.”

“Is that what I’m here for? I can handle a demon of that name, but I can’t fight a concept.”

“With all due respect, it’s what you do best. No one who witnessed the attack on Haven will forget what you risked that night, or how the bleakness of our survival transformed when your magic lit that ravine.”

“It’s not _my_ magic.”

That was the cold, hard truth of it. My magic had been little more than flashfire and lightning; if I had chosen to join the Inquisition as Solas had, I’d have been thrown out on my ear. I had no special knowledge of the Fade, none of Dorian’s technical prowess, Vivienne’s rigorous training, nor Morrigan’s mastery of the arcane.

I’d grown, gods, I’d grown, but whatever pride I took in necromancy and the storm, my value lied in the Anchor— power stolen from a thief. Everything was being stripped away from me bit by bit, and I wouldn’t fool myself into thinking the mark was any different. One day its rightful owner would come to claim it, and if Corypheus wasn’t dead by then…

But Cullen wore an expression that brokered no debate, and so I said no more. He glanced off at some point behind me, squinting against sunlight reflected off the snow.

“I wasn’t born with a sword in my hand, you know. That’s the nature of power. No one cares how you got it, only how you wield it, and Maker knows you do a better job than most.”

I nodded along because there was a crowd behind us and I’d already said too much. Deshanna taught me better than to air out my insecurities, and Jovan was right— sometimes they needed a show.

Though I was the only soul in Thedas that needn’t fear a rift, my quiet hours belonged to the memory of a body slung at my feet in Redcliffe, the shadow of a dragon blotting out the sun. When I closed my eyes, I heard Stroud’s solemn farewell, felt corpses beneath my feet in the Fallow Mire. If it was Andraste’s chosen that helped our soldiers keep such terrors at bay, I could pretend a little longer.

“Welcome home.” A voice like Orlesian silk purred in my ear. “Oh, your hair is darling!”

Leliana had crept up from behind to throw her arms around me, and I spun to find Cassandra following in her wake, hands on hips and a knowing look in her eye.

“She never says such things about my hair.”

“Well you don’t have such pretty little ears,” Leliana cooed. “And look at all this lovely gold!”

I touched the ear that Adahlen had pierced on instinct, then forced it back down to my side. I’d felt naked without my vallaslin, but without a curtain of hair to hide behind I was all the more exposed. I cleared my throat and extracted myself from Nightingale’s embrace, then reached out to clasp the Seeker’s arm.

“It’s good to see you, Cassandra.”

“It is good to have you home, Inquisitor,” she said, her hand firm at my elbow.

Caught between them as I’d been once before, I forced a grin. I wasn’t sure which of them would kill me first if they knew that I’d spent three days in a Chantry cellar with the abomination who started the war, or that I’d left Jovan with a hundred sovereigns for any shemlen mage who happened to know my true name.

“Where’s…” Dorian, Varric, Cole, “Josephine?”

“In the great hall. She thought perhaps we shouldn’t all come at you at once.”

“Then I suppose I shouldn’t keep them waiting.”

Together we clattered across the grated entryway in our booted feet, Cullen shouting out to announce me to those gathered in the lower ward.

“Inquisition, your Herald returns!”

My left hand was raised and blazing to greet them, and it was sudden chaos all around, an eruption of cheers and applause, bodies pressing in from every side. Salutes rippled through the crowd and arms reached out, slapping my back and gripping my shoulders to pull me this way and that. Kisses fell uninvited on the tops of my hands, and faces not seen since the Arbor Wilds were streaked in tears.

But I’d come untethered to float somewhere above it all. Someone that surely wasn’t me greeted each of them by name, and someone I didn’t know whispered blessings to those who tugged at her sleeve. She soothed every anxious look with quiet assurance, and gave thanks for their service. Grinning as she climbed the stairs, she turned to the crowd as her Commander had advised, shouting to those assembled that Wycome had been purged. Of Venatori, of red lyrium, of corruption and hate.

The roar of their approval was deafening, but the part of me that was till me felt nothing at all. It wasn’t the crowd that had changed, only the names. _Herald_ , they called me. _Inquisitor_. They still wanted my blood, they’d just found a different way to ask. Because that would be the price, wouldn’t it? To stop an immortal.

I’d been the Inquisition’s prisoner and their Herald, but my only home was on the battlefield and that was where I’d lay my head. The revelation bloomed in my heart, warm and sharp like embrium. With it came sweet relief— there was no need to wish back the blood that marked my skin, no need to keep scavenging for scraps of a fallen empire and calling it a life.

I was an arrow in flight, unfettered and free, there would be no returning to the bow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been a thousand years since I updated!!!! But I did write some [Rial/Solas flashback smut](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4115845) in the middle, so that's a good excuse right? And I also [joined Tumblr](http://canticle-of-apotheosis.tumblr.com/) because Deedy ([Everything is fine. Nothing is wrong. It's fine.](http://deedylovescake.tumblr.com/post/112937195494/oh-lavellan-who-are-you-trying-to-convince)) made me do it, so gimme a shout out and I will follow you back!! 
> 
> For those trying to keep score of the timeline at home: Day 0 was chapter 57 in the Arbor Wilds. Day 1: Crestwood. Day 2: Three-Trout Pond. Day 3: Skyhold. Day 4: Emprise du Lion. Days 5-17: on the Waking Sea. Day 18: Inquisition Camp. Day 19: Clan Lavellan. Days 20-34: Wycome. Days 35-37: Anders. Days 38-47: the Dead Helm. Days 48-54: on the Waking Sea. Days 55-56: the march from Jader.


	84. Bit by Bit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you play as a Necromancer, Cole gets pretty upset about it, which has always made me wonder if it's more than meets the eye. Mortalitasi draw spirits across the Veil to posses the corpses that populate the Necropolis, which reminded me a lot of Justice and Kristoff, and beyond that Viuus claims it is the Maker's will that his first children (spirits) should aid the second (mortals). All of that to say, I definitely got the impression being a Necromancer was far more than casting spells or summoning wisps, it seems heavily hinted that something skirting along the edge of possession may be at work.

No sooner had I stepped into the great hall than Josephine’s arm was linked through mine, a shimmery puff of golden silk that might as well have been a thread of force magic dragging me from the crowd. But being pulled along was so much easier than forging a path of my own, and so I lengthened my stride.

“Regretfully, Inquisitor, but we have not a moment to spare. Dignitaries have already begun to gather for the banquet.”

I glanced over my shoulder and for a split second locked eyes with Varric, his expression reminding me of the moment we first met— a flash of something cynical quickly softened by an all too easy smile. He thrust his chin up by the slightest of degrees to acknowledge the Antivan holding my reins, then grimaced apologetically as if resigning me to that fate.

Of course. Of course there would be a banquet. Cullen must not have known, else he would have warned me; we shared nothing if not our mutual disdain of formal attire. Not that I could argue her logic. It would take a mountain of shemlen support to legitimize what happened in Wycome, and with a three-week journey from there to Skyhold she’d had all the time in Thedas to orchestrate a soiree.

Josephine pushed open the door that led into the stairwell, and a few sleepy crows scattered up from the bannister. Their cries echoed through the tower as we stepped through, a familiar sound that sat uneasy in my ears. Birds didn't belong beneath the roof of a keep anymore than I did.

“I hope that you will forgive me,” said Josephine as soon as the door was closed, “but I took the liberty of raising the Free Marches banner in solidarity with Wycome.”

“Oh,” I said, aware of what remained unspoken: she’d taken down the Dalish sigil.

“A temporary gesture, I assure you.”

I nodded, not trusting my own voice. Bit by bit. Every little thing.

She paused on the stairs, frowning down at her writing tablet. “I wish I might have consulted you first, but action was required. Distasteful though it may be, there are those among the nobility who would paint the Duke as a martyr. We must give no ground for them to disclaim your victory as an elven uprising.”

“Shall I dock my ears? I’m sure Madame de Fer can stem the bleeding.”

“Inquisitor! I—”

Instinctively, my hands flew up, palms out and placating. “That was uncalled for, I apologize. It’s the necessity of your action that frustrates me, not you, Ambassador. Let Thedas see our support extends to all people of the Free Marches.”

"Indeed so," she breathed, tucking an errant curl behind one rounded ear.

I opened the door to my quarters and motioned for her to enter, following behind so I could repair my crumbling mask. Antoine dumped red lyrium in the _human_ water supply and stuffed his council with Venatori, yet there were those who would sooner support his treachery than acknowledge the aid of a 'savage.' It was nothing new, nor the battle I’d been called to fight, and railing about it to a human made little sense.

"Besides, I change the Inquisition's heraldry often enough. When the Grey Wardens joined our cause, or when Gaspard took the throne. I would have hoisted the Free Marcher flag if only to remind our enemies that we're more than capable of reaching across the Waking Sea."

Josephine crossed the rug to my desk, pouring a thimbleful of brandy for us both. “Make no mistake, the Duke had no short supply of enemies, and tonight we shall count them as friends.”

I took the slender glass from her outstretched hand, let it clink lightly against her own. “To Wycome, then.”

"To Wycome."

A polite smile graced her lips, and together we drank. She'd obviously gone to the trouble of sending up something better than the rotgut I stocked for myself. She collected my empty glass and set it neatly before the mess of dwarven tomes piled on my desk.

It was only then that I had a chance to take in my quarters and realize how very little had changed. Someone had come to make the bed and tend the fire, but otherwise it was exactly as I’d left it weeks ago— a tangle of blankets and bottles by the hearth, empty wine glasses set among the candlesticks, and Amalia's skull beside my bed.

"I received word that Lord Evariste Lemarque will be in attendance tonight."

"Fairbanks?" I exclaimed, dropping one hand to the totem. "I thought he was still cross."

"I fear that may still be the case, best be on your toes."

My fingers brushed across bone and gemstone. “When am I expected?”

“Six bells, although I would suggest convening the War Council at five. Leliana will have information essential to forging new…friendships.”

I saw that a gown and slippers had been laid out, and steam pouring from the adjacent room told me a bath had been drawn. “Five bells. I think I can manage.”

"Until then, Inquisitor."

Her footsteps scuffled along the marble stairs, and I absently palmed the skull. Drawing off a bit of the mana pooled beneath the everite and stormheart, I relished in the low throb of death magic, dissonant and dark.

“Oh, and Josephine,” I called out before she was gone.

"Hmmm?"

“I’d like to have all my books and journals crated up and sent to Wycome.”

She hesitated only a heartbeat. “Of course.”

I rolled onto the bed, tucking my knees to my chest and holding the totem close. The cool press of it warped the veil around me, like a hammock stretched to cradle a dreamer, and I dipped into a trance. There was time enough to meditate and set myself to rights; something was amiss. Though I could conjure a thousand ugly memories of my own, demons no longer plagued my sleep. At first I mistook it for transcendence, at last rising above their temptations, but that was naive.

There were infinite demons seeking escape from the Fade, and every one of them had given up on me. I could think of only one reason for their sudden disinterest: that I was no longer available. I'd let myself think it lasted but a moment in the Chantry cellar, but it was something more. Amalia felt closer than a second skin, deeper than my bones; I could ignore it no longer.

_We are not as they are._

We. My mana churned up burning bright, but there was nowhere to cast. Only a Templar could strike at what ailed me. Amalia's displeasure roiled across my aura.

_You called and I answered. You chose and I accepted. Possession is a sickness, but we are well._

How many times had I heard the story? That Justice once wore a Grey Warden like a suit of armor, serving the Order until the day it simply dropped his corpse on a widow's doorstep, the same day an Amaranthine fishmonger claimed to see a Warden-Mage boarding a pirate ship. Varric himself confirmed it to be true, to the world in _Tale of the Champion,_ then again to Cassandra and the Inquisition. Anders surrendered his life to a spirit, a choice that ended as possession always did.

_The fault belongs to Justice. It holds no dominion in the Fade, but remembers a time when it could shape the world. Lacking the will to manifest as your Compassion, it chafed against the veil. Despair drove it from a corpse to nest among the living, and despair drives it still. We are well._

She curled around me like a cat, dark and deadly and serene. There was nothing to be afraid of, only comfort and calm. I wondered what sort of spirit Dorian had pulled across the Veil, but not even Necromancers could speak of such things aloud. I now understood the why of it a little better; if the Chantry had any idea...

Suddenly, I was sitting on the edge of my bed, hands folded primly in my lap. Rings enchanted for cunning were on each finger, and an amulet of willpower glittered between my breasts. I wore the emerald gown Josephine had laid out, belted with gold at my waist, and satin slippers laced with ribbon.

I glanced up sharply; the angle of the sun had shifted, casting tawny light and shadows across the rug. Hours had passed. I flew to my feet and whirled around, lightning crackling against my skin. Amalia’s laughter was a purr somewhere deep in my chest.

_You care not for such things. Now they are done._

I swallowed thickly. The memories were there, like a dream I’d forgotten. Discarding my dusty armor and climbing into the tub, letting heat soak away the ache of travel. I’d dressed in a trance, then twisted the short strings of my hair into curls before staining my lips and lifting the stick of kohl… human customs I knew nothing of.

_Yes, go and tell your Templar. Fear. Tremble._

A smile tugged at one corner of my mouth. It felt no more a lapse of control than when I surrendered myself to the crowd, let them pull and push me to place I never meant to go. If Amalia meant to hurt me, she could have done so long ago, and if she intended to leave as Solas always had, then she'd had her chance in Wycome.

Content as she was content, I made my way down the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Dorian, the Banquet, Fairbae, and a Very Special Guest. XD 
> 
> I was going to do Leliana's personal quest after the banquet, but now I'm thinking I'll just jump to meeting Flemmeth and beating Corypheus. If you're still reading and have an opinion on it one way or the other, lemme know, because it's all for you <3


	85. Revere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't played as a necromancer, there is a quest called "Revere" that I found to be particularly upsetting. I literally spent three days in the real world trying to decide what to do- Cullen's response was particularly horrific. Anyhow, it was an enormous point of morbid fascination, and considering how badly it stressed me as a player I could only imagine the sort of impact it would have on an actual person, so I really wanted to have Rial deal with it before moving onto the main drive of the story: Flemeth and Solas.
> 
> Other than that, this chapter is largely about setting up all the pins to be in the right place for the end game. omg.

There was precious little to discuss that Lady Volant had not already told me in Wycome, so what insight Leliana had to offer flew by quickly enough. Judging by the sheer volume of reports and tokens scattered across the table, we’d likely spend the better part of a week sorting through it all, but I’d presumed we’d finished for the night when Cullen stood a little straighter and tugged sharply at the hem of his formal jacket.

The Commander cleared his throat but once, and I inclined my head. What was the expression Varric taught me? _Waiting for the other shoe to drop…_

“My soldiers and I captured Samson, Inquisitor. An easy task, given that he was still unconscious from your—”

“Unconscious,” I repeated. 

“Lady Vivienne tended his wounds.”

“I poured lightning through his veins and put a blade in his heart, was I unclear in my intent?”

Silence, then Leliana shrugged. “Kill him again, if you like.”

“In her report,” Josephine cut in, “Madame de Fer wrote that Samson was, and I quote, ‘a prize the Inquisitor may regret not taking the time to savor.’”

I lay my palms flat on the War Table, recalling the moment with perfect clarity: Cassandra shouting from the bounds of my static cage while Samson choked and convulsed beneath my feet. I could still feel his blood slicked breastplate against my soles, and the sudden stillness of his death— an instant of satisfaction and pride.

Oh, gods, my Pride standing across the battlefield with a look of such unguarded adoration that…

“Give him to Dagna.”

“Shall I question him first?” Leliana sounded cheerful at the prospect, but Cullen shook his head.

“A waste of time. Templars are trained body and soul, nothing short of demonic intervention will break him.”

That, I thought sharply, could be arranged. Pushing at the token set atop the Arbor Wilds, I schooled the malice from my voice. “I’m inclined to agree, if only because Corypheus is not the sort of master to teach his pet. Samson had no idea what it meant to drink from the Vir’abelasan.”

“On that note,” Josephine cut in. “The Well of Sorrows was constructed in unspeakably ancient times. There may be slivers of information left in elven legends, or crumbling papers in far-flung libraries. Perhaps we should send people to research how ancient elves made this strange artifact.”

“Absolutely. It’s my understanding that Keeper Solan in the Korcari Wilds is in possession of many ancient texts that reference the Well, including those Morrigan herself has…examined.”

Though the witch had declined attending the War Council, I refrained from accusing her of theft in deference to her mother. The tomes had been returned to Ariane, after all. Josephine glanced up from her tablet, quill poised just above the paper.

“Would not the oldest human records on magic be found in Tevinter? I can arrange for our scholars to visit the Minrathous archives.”

“Yes, of course,” I demurred.

“Then let us adjourn. We have kept our guests waiting long enough.”

Heedless, Josephine gathered up the stack of reports we’d been able to address. Cullen followed her from the room, ducking through the inset door that led to the hall. It was not lost on me that Leliana lingered at her post, leaning back against the rough hewn edge of the table to look out the thin, slatted windows.

“I will see to it a message reaches Keeper Solan.”

The sigh was louder than I intended. “That obvious?”

“Josie means well, but she has little experience beyond her…station. I am grateful she need never walk a path as dangerous as mine, although I do not envy the confines of our Ambassador’s office. I would not be who I am today if not for the mercy of an elven mage.”

“Neria Surana.”

“When I was a stranger,” she said, at last turning around, “you chose the mountain path and my scouts were saved. I was your captor, yet you shed blood with me in Andraste’s Temple, my sister in arms.”

I flinched with the memory of a different battle, Terror gutting her in a single blow. _Lethallan_ burned on my tongue, but I gave it no air and the flame was snuffed; I’d put my faith in the bloodshed of Redcliffe one too many times before.

“There are few who would claim me as such.”

“We are all the Maker’s children, no?”

“If only his Chantry thought the same.”

“If only,” she smiled. “But come, before Josephine decides we’ve dallied too long.”

Leliana proffered her arm and I took it, fingers brushing along the soft velvet of her sleeve. We walked through the drafty corridor, silent but for the distant sounds of those gathered for the banquet. In the dim firelight still burning in Josephine’s hearth, she paused to shoot me a sidelong glance. 

“I must travel to Valence, Inquisitor, one final errand for Divine Justinia. You have been gone for some time, but I would be glad of your company.”

“I can think of no one I’d rather join.”

“No? Some prefer to travel with a mage at their side, or a powerful warrior.”

“Ah, but only a bard can sing for me.”

For people like me— the elves, the pagans, and the apostates Vivienne or Cassandra would seek to convert and confine. However ruthless, Leliana held no such dogma. When I was gone, she would be the most powerful ally I could leave behind.

“You need only to name the song.”

And with that, every pretense of The Game was stripped away. When I died, no one would call Falon’Din to my side. Not that it mattered what happened to me— songs were for the living. If the Chant of Light were sung over my bones, what human would remember that it was a Dalish who saved them? And if that were forgotten, my death would gain nothing for The People.

“I think I know just the one.”

“Wonderful! Then I will make the arrangements. It is but a day’s journey.”

And so we exited into the great hall, arm in arm. If she meant to rally support in her bid for Divine, the gesture would mean a great deal to those watching from the shadows. Vivienne included, though I’d no concern for what she thought. Although if Leliana could claim me as a sister in arms, then Cassandra was something closer still…

The thought knotted uncomfortably in my chest.

In face of the smattering applause that greeted us, Leliana turned suddenly shy, giggling as she leaned to whisper in my ear.

“The man in the yellow doublet— Philliam Trevelyan, who fancies himself a bard. Say nothing you would not have him repeat to the world.”

“Duly noted.”

“Now,” she cautioned, pulling me toward the nearest table. “I have made a vow not to release you before I see a glass of wine in your hand and a smile on your face.”

The smile came easily enough, and the wine appeared soon after— in the gloved hand of a dwarven rogue. I reached for the glass, hardly recognizing the man in a silken blouse and tailored breeches, golden hair for once loose around his shoulders.

We stood appraising each other in silence, a subtle exchange of raised eyebrows asking questions and half-shrugs giving answer, until Leliana slipped away.

“Now. Who are you again?”

“Varric Tethras. Rogue, storyteller, and occasionally unwelcome party guest.”

“Unwelcome!” 

“Ruffles thinks I have half a mind to spring you from this stuffed-shirt shit show.”

“And how’s that going down?”

“Beats me, Sparkler’s in charge,” he said from behind a mug of ale.

At the very thought of Dorian, I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. He was not hypothetical or conditional, but real. A thread of doubt trembled somewhere in the back of my mind, but I snapped it in two. 

“Where is he?”

“Technically," he said, dragging out the word like a question. "Not invited. Apparently canoodling with Tevinter mages after kicking Tevinter mages out of Wycome sends a mixed signal.”

“To the Orlesian nobles I’m saving after Orlesian nobles slaughtered my people?”

“To be honest, I’m not sure they’re getting enough oxygen behind those masks.”

I laughed for what felt like the first time in weeks, and traded my empty glass for another. Varric shadowed me through the hall through my initial round of noble chatter, but it was eventually his adoring fans, rather than my own pressing duty, that drove us apart.

By the time the feasting began in earnest, I resigned myself to the slow progression of courses that kept me pinned at the table with delegations from Rialto and Bastion on either side. Vivienne swooped by to welcome me home, and each of my advisors came to check on me in turn, but for the most part I resigned myself to the endless repetition of the conversation that inevitably continued well after dessert.

Yes, there was red lyrium in human drinking supply. No, the elves are not immune. Yes, the Venatori infiltrated the city. No, the Duke was not possessed. Yes, the new city council includes members of my clan. No, I did not use the power of the Inquisition to appoint them.

“The current city council will remain through Corypheus’ defeat,” I explained to a pair of nobles from Val Fermin. “But after the war new elections will be held, and a more permanent plan of governance enacted.”

Behind her gilded mask, the woman’s eyes were glittering bright, “What a charming idea!”

I managed a wan smile, and then a gentle touch at my elbow provided the excuse of my escape.

“If you’ll pardon me.”

I swung around, willing to devote my full attention to a Chantry clerk if it meant avoiding another minute of that particular line of banality. But instead of any such thing, there stood a slight Nevarran man with skin the color of richly brewed tea.

Surprise propelled me straight into the warmest shemlen greeting I knew, and I threw my arms around him.

“Viuus Anaxas,” I breathed, utterly stunned to find my mentor returned to Skyhold.

Even more stunning, the gesture was returned, and an almost ceremonial kiss laid on each cheek. The mage pulled back a pace, gloved hands still clasped at my elbows, brown eyes warm but solemn.

“I was saddened to hear that we lost a party of Inquisition soldiers in combat with the Venatori.”

“Ma serannas. I just received word of it myself.”

“Do you have a moment?”

He released me with his hands but not his eyes, some urgency belying the usual aloofness of his gaze. I retrieved my own wine from the table and passed a goblet to the Necromancer, gesturing toward a vacant seat at the table.

“Please, sit.”

“I have come to speak for the dead.”

“Oh,” I said, at last unraveling his intent. "Yes, of course.”

Viuus followed me from the great hall into the garden, empty but for a few couples availing themselves to the secluded alcoves. In the starlight I saw that someone had tended my herbs with great care, and the small stone falon that I'd erected yet stood.

I led him along the sheltered walkway to the small chapel Mother Giselle had installed. It afforded a greater degree of privacy than any room but my own quarters, where I didn’t dare take him with so many gossiping nobles watching.

The door groaned as I pushed it open, but Inside it was as quiet as a tomb. I pulsed a spark of mana across the veil, and the candles set around the base of Andraste’s shrine cast the room in flickering light. There was a single dusty pew pushed up against the wall, and together we sat. I was vaguely aware that my posture was far too human, legs crossed at the knee.

There was an air of formality that Viuus held around himself, like a shroud of death itself, his features locked in calm repose. The candlelight exaggerated the dark shadows of a beard that was not permitted to grow, but his scalp was entirely smooth, and my fingertips knew already exactly how— Stop.

“As I understand it,” he began. “The Venatori now pose a significant threat to the Western Approach. Our soldiers' deaths will not be the last.”

“That is what I hope to avoid. Ravens will be sent tomorrow, instructing our forces to hold. Commander Cullen would prefer us to go on the attack, but—” 

“The Venatori will expect retaliation,” he said dismissively, taking a sip from his wine. “But not from those already felled.”

My heart skipped a beat. It was one thing to force an enemy’s corpse into battle, but to raise our own bloody soldiers and send them shambling across the field? Gods, fuck. Josephine would be furious— most of Thedas considered necromancy no better than blood magic. Yet the Venatori could not possibly stand against the undead. It was certain victory.

Viuus regarded the conflict as it played out on my features, but his own were utterly placid. No, confident. He knew already that I’d made my decision.

“I could send a few apprentices to the field, in secret. If we lure the Venatori out, the soldiers' physical bodies may complete the task. Why let the Venatori claim more lives? We need not allow them that.”

“Do it.”

He nodded once, and the matter was done. “Do you find that our way suits you, Inquisitor?”

“The way, yes. The rumors I could live without. I imagine you’ve heard a few of them by now.”

“We swim always in the rumors. The living are salacious.”

 _I’m not judging,_ Blackwall said, crossing his arms in a way that said: I’m judging. I’d laughed it off at the time, but it was a point he’d always hold against me.

“I suppose they are,” I said, looking down at my wine. “One of my closest companions claims I have an…unnatural fascination with the dead. Accused me of sleeping with corpses.”

“I take it you do not.”

“Viuus!”

“It is not unheard of among our kind.”

I went perfectly still, looking for any trace that he was joking. Our kind. “Is that your…preference?”

“Me? No,” he said, leaning forward by the slightest of degrees. “I vastly prefer a bed that is warm.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit where credit is due: a good deal of Josephine's dialogue is lifted straight from her war table missions, which were always particularly frustrating for me as a Dalish Mage (yay! We found the well of sorrows! WTF do you mean ask the Tevinters for help studying it?!), and the first several lines that Viuus gives are from a letter he writes to the Inquisitor. 
> 
> Ugh, alas, Fairbae did not show up. This chapter was already ridiculously long and rambling, and something had to go. I may post it as a short story if anyone's interested.
> 
> Speaking of short stories, here's one about [Kitty and Amalia](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4222608/chapters/9548133) if you'd like a bit more perspective on Abomination!Rial.
> 
> In happier news: Deedy has given us this [gloriously naked](http://deedylovescake.tumblr.com/post/122474136389/and-canticle-of-apotheosis-requested-rial-in), curvy ass NSFW version of Rial in happier times with her pretty vallaslin.


	86. Holy Maker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ridiculous, non-canon smut ahoy. If that's not your jam, everything will pick up neat and tidy in the next chapter. For those who don't quite comprehend my obsession with Viuus, please consider [this screenshot](http://canticle-of-apotheosis.tumblr.com/post/122989913607/canticle-of-apotheosis-oh-gods-im-sorry-this) and [this fancast.](http://canticle-of-apotheosis.tumblr.com/post/122859543472/just-imagine-faran-tahir-as-viuus-anaxas-and)

_Prefer._

Perhaps it was the wine, but for a moment it sounded as if Viuus were suggesting the warmth of the living was a preference and not a prerequisite. It was certainly the wine that made me bold enough to ask.

“I…have you ever…?” 

“It is a complicated subject,” he said, reminding me of how Solas once demurred from a similar question. How many answers did I lack for want of courage? I took another sip of wine.

“You’ve taught complicated subjects to me before.”

Viuus gave me an appraising look, as he had the first morning we’d met, and stretched one arm out along the back of the pew. He’d once carried himself with a formality that seemed almost Tranquil, but there was something less guarded about him now that I had taken my vows.

He drank from his goblet the same way Dorian would, breathing in to savor the wine with the practiced ease of a connoisseur. After considering his words, he set the glass aside.

“Just as it is a sickness to lust for the dead, spirits that Desire mortal flesh are inherently corrupt. Such unholy unions invite abomination. The Mortalitasi therefore extend occult knowledge only to the sound of mind. In turn, a Necromancer calls forth only the sound of spirit.”

A sense of deep satisfaction settled over me as I recalled what Amalia had told me. “We are well.”

“We are well,” he echoed with a knowing look. “And, thus, able to recognize that circumstance may occasionally allow the Maker’s first and second children to forge a bond transcendent of their nature.”

“Love? Between a spirit and a mortal.”

“Such a union is best suited to the Fade, but it is not unheard of for Necromancy to build the bridge.”

“Have you ever…experienced such a thing?”

His smile was small and cryptic. “Have you?”

“No,” I said over a roar like the faraway thunder of a waterfall. The veil prickled along my skin with a memory that didn’t belong. __

“Our way is steeped in darkness, Inquisitor. We walk among the dead and dying, and death is in our veins. Until I am called to the Maker’s side, it is _life_ I choose to embrace.”

His eyes briefly drifted down, and for a moment I couldn’t fathom what drew his gaze. My vallaslin were gone. Then I remembered the amulet, and touched it lightly as I stood.

“We should return to the banquet, the Orlesians are quick with their rumors.”

“As I understand it, Inquisitor, there are rumors already.”

Heat flew to my cheeks. Gods damn it. Jovan heard them all the way in the Free Marches, of course the rumors had spread to Nevarra. Dorian and I had reveled in the scandal, the way my knife-ears undercut his father’s hope for him to bed a woman. But Viuus? He was a Speaker for the Dead in the Grand Necropolis, of royal blood.

“I’m so sorry, Viuus. I hope the association has not sullied your reputation.”

He set his wineglass on the floor and stood. “To the contrary, I assure you. The Mortalitasi benefit from having a Necromancer acknowledged as the most powerful mage in Thedas. I benefit as well, for King Markus believes I hold sway with the Inquisition.”

“Well, that’s true enough, though it’s a shame your proper due is given only as a matter of scandal.”

His lips twitched with the beginnings of a wry smile. “Perhaps the greater shame is that a scandal has not been given its proper due.”

I froze as surely as if I’d heard a twig snap in the woods. I'd so carefully relegated him within the confines of an arcane adviser that I could hardly reconcile the desire made plain in his gaze. He was terribly handsome, but human, and I’d never thought that—

Viuus stepped forward with deliberate slowness, allowing me time to object. But I was transfixed by the seductive rhythm of his gait. Unfocused by wine, I was unaware of how close I’d allowed him to come until I was inhaling the warm scent of a human spice I couldn’t name.

Words failed me.

When I looked up, his mouth was near enough to kiss, hovering so close that I could nearly taste the wine that we’d shared. The moment stretched on, as warm and languid as his breath on my lips. Caught in the intensity of whatever boundary we were violating, neither of us moved.

He took my wine glass, fingers neatly avoiding my own, and bent to set it on the floor beside me, a gesture at once submissive and invasive, bringing his face all too near…When he stood, I met his gaze, and found myself unable to look away.

We’d touched any number of times before; as I trained, when I took my vows, even in the banquet hall mere moments before. But now the thought of it was electric, prickling at the hairs on the back of my neck. It wasn’t simply an idea, but reality made manifest by magic, tangible between us.

“What would you have me call you?”

My heart clenched at the thought. With a title, I could retreat. Oh, but with a name. With a name I invited him to cross a line my clan marked around me long ago. But new lines were being drawn around me, and the old ones washed away. Why should I be bound to the past? I had so little time left in the world.

“Rial.”

“Rial,” he repeated, rolling the _r_ beneath the weight of his accent, and I was helpless to imagine how else that Nevarran tongue might roll.

Viuus reached for me then, sliding one gloved hand around my waist so that his fingertips fit along my spine and I arced at the touch, an instinct that thrust me against his chest, warm and solid and real. My left hand played with the odd belting at his hip, fearful, testing; was I even brave enough to…?

I lifted my other hand to his cheek, but I was the one who gasped at the touch, shocked to feel the bite of stubble like sandpaper against my skin. I stroked my thumb along the length his jaw, at last catching his small, rounded ear in my palm. Oh, gods, he was so human.

The hand at my back drifted lower still, but the other Viuus brought to his lips, catching the seafoam leather between his teeth to tug it free. He held my gaze as his fingertips traced along my neck, coming to rest beneath my jaw with a gentle pressure to coax out my pulse.

Pushing up on tips of my toes, my mouth went to his, warm and wet and impossibly full, a sweet, soft contrast to the sharp scrape of his cheek. He deepened the kiss, and our slowness was broken. Everything seemed to be a jumble of greedy hands and tongue and teeth, and his body was pressing me back until I bumped against the wall.

It was a jolt of surprise that stirred up an all too Dalish instinct to slip from human hands, an energy I channeled to pin him against the wall instead. He groaned into my mouth with the impact, then bit at my lip until I was gasping. I’d imagined human kisses would be as formal as their customs, but I found him as urgent as any other man.

I parted my legs to straddle his thigh, bowed my head to his throat to lick at the roughness of his skin. My heart skipped a beat when his hands settled at the small of my back, loosening the laces of my gown. The banquet was still in full effect, and I’d been Herald of Andraste long enough to feel a flash of concern.

“Should we,” I trailed off and glanced at the shrine behind me.

Viuus didn’t even pause. “What better place to cry out the Maker’s name?”

My own startled laughter echoed in the empty room. I’d openly denied Andraste at every turn, but there was something deliciously devious about fucking a man in her temple.

“Or,” he continued, pressing his mouth to my neck, “do you swear by a different god?”

The moan was inescapable, desire drawn out by the memory of a every blasphemous cry; the Anchor sputtered in my palm, but Viuus was unconcerned. There was a cascading _shink_ of metal on stone as my gilded belt slid to the floor, and the gown loosened from my hips to fall down around my ankles. But for the silken slippers laced at my feet, I was naked before him. His eyes were heavy lidded with lust that sent his hands skimming across my breasts, thumbs teasing at my nipples until they were hard and small.

The strangeness of it was a shock of pleasure. Vallaslin once guided men across my body, drawing every hand along the same swirling paths, but Viuus was without a map. Unable to follow the pattern I could predict, each touch a surprise that left me trembling and gasping for more.

Gods, I wanted him despite myself, despite everything I’d ever been taught.

The thought of half-formed Dalish dogma holding any sway over my heart drove me to my knees, to fumble with the clasps that fastened his belt, to pull open the laces, to take his thick, shemlen cock in my hands. Viuus was hard already, skin like silk and blazing hot in my palm.

“I’ve never done this,” I said, words tumbling from my mouth before I realized how naive they’d sound. “I mean…of course I’ve…just not…”

“Ah. So I need not fear reprisal from Lord Pavus.”

I bit back a laugh. “A victim of the rumor mill.”

Relieved at his nonchalance, I refocused my attention. There was no mistaking Viuus for an elven man, not with the fine, dark curls that brushed against my lips as slid my tongue around the base of his shaft, but there was no mystery to him either.

I licked him from top to bottom, once and then again, until his cock was slick enough to swallow. My tongue flattened beneath him and I suckled until my nose pressed into his soft thatch of hair. His fingertips were light on the backs of my ears, stroking in a way that told me I wasn’t the first elf to kneel before him. Yet I moaned around his cock, perversely aroused to think he knew exactly how to handle me.

Viuus let me continue to suck a moment more, then pulled himself free. I helped him escape his trousers while he shrugged out of his jacket, then he spread it out across the floor. I went to my hands and knees on the soft leather, glancing over my shoulder to watch as he knelt behind me.

I felt a familiar trace of magic as he cast a ward around us, but I cast my own as well, insurance I could not breathe easy without. Then his fingers dipped between my legs to test me, and he swore in Nevarran at what he found.

He eased into me with a few short strokes, hissing as he finally buried his full length inside. I squirmed against the sudden fullness, spreading my legs a little wider in accommodation. 

“Holy Maker,” he swore, so wonderfully obscene in his abandon that I finally understood why Solas loved to hear it. Gods, he’d loved to hear it.

Viuus pulled back until the ridge of his cock caught at my entrance, then dug at my hips to slam me back against him. He went on until sound of it would have made Andraste blush if her complexion weren’t set in stone. Viuus slid his hand around to press against my clit, and I braced myself against a methodic rhythm that told me he’d no intent of lingering.

“Harder,” I demanded, and he was quick to comply.

I was painfully aroused at the realization that I was on my hands and knees for a human. Jovan would be absolutely shocked, Solas would be— Solas would be furious. Whatever my doubts, I was certain of that.

Furious that I’d disrespect a place of human faith, furious that I’d have abandoned my duty at the banquet, furious that I’d let a human fuck the key to his salvation, furious that I’d let a human mage spill his seed inside my elven cunt. _Elf takes the elf…_

"Oh, gods, Fen'Harel, Maker, fuck.

I dropped to my elbows, pressing my mouth to my hands to stifle the cry, a quick shock of pleasure that washed over me and ebbed away. Viuus lasted only a few moments longer, grunting and swearing to the Maker as he came.

He collapsed over me, heart pounding against my back as we lay there panting in Andraste’s shadow. Not in love, but alive. 

After a time, his breaths slowed and he rose up on his knees, leaving me gaping and empty and wet. He rummaged through his clothes with brisk efficiency, offering me a handkerchief so I could tidy up as best I could. When I was done, he burned it to ash; the only true evidence of our coupling all but vanishing into the dusty corners of the chapel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanna say a huge thanks to everyone who's stuck through this with me, and how much it means to me that y'all are still reading along and indulging my head canons and strangeness. xoxox


	87. A Matter of Policy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The most awkward cocktail party in all of Thedas continues....

Viuus must have assumed I had servants to dress me, because the moment I retrieved my gown from the floor, he took it from my hands though he was still shirtless himself. With a sharp snap, he shook out the wrinkles and bunched the skirts against the bodice.

He gently caught both of my wrists in his hand to lift my arms, threading my hands through the top, world going dark the gown went over my head. He pulled the bodice down around my waist, then spun me around.

I nearly bounced with the motion as he tugged and tighten each row of ribbon, adjusting, readjusting until the bodice was laced with crushing tightness. Viuus turned me back to face him, then knelt to smooth the material around my hips and legs, brushing away the dust and shaking out the skirt by its hem.

We’d been in such a frenzy that I’d scarcely seen him naked at all, leaving me to belatedly admire the man as he crouched before me. Though he lacked the definition Dorian built in combat, Viuus was lean and compact in a way that suggested not all his time was spent casting glyphs and wards.

When he stood, I laid a hand across his chest to comb my fingers through his wiry curls, trailing down as it tapered into a dark line that disappeared beneath the band of his trousers. Undistracted from the task at hand, he reached around me to crisscross the gold chain of my belt across my hips.

“You’re rather good at this,” I said, watching as he adjusted the belt's decorative cord to fall just so.

“I trust you are not disturbed to realize more of my time is spent dressing women than the reverse.”

Oh. The Necropolis, gods. Of course. “Not in the least.”

He stepped back to regard his handiwork, and I feigned a huff of indignity when he slid two fingers into the top of my bodice to adjust my breasts.

“You are an exquisite creature,” he said, stroking one thumb across my newfound cleavage. 

His own wardrobe was more easily set to rights, his stiff leather jacket covering over any disarray underneath. I gathered his gloves from where they’d been discarded, and in a moment Viuus looked as collected as he’d been not fifteen minutes before.

Together we stepped into the garden, the formal distance we’d kept between us in place once more. No one spared a second glance as we strode along the arcade, nor did I catch any suspicious whispers. Truly, the only thing I could hear was the shrill tone of Morrigan’s voice as she took some hapless fool to task: _your aid is most unwelcome!_

Sweet Sylaise, she was imperious. I’d hoped the Well of Sorrows would have imbued her with a more patient wisdom. In the morning we would speak; Wycome had delayed me from her mysteries long enough.

“I shall send word to my apprentices at once,” said Viuus, resuming our previous conversation for the sake of whatever appearances we needed to maintain.

“Excellent. I would like to keep their movements as— Well, hello, there.”

As if out of thin air, a little boy stood in our path. He seemed almost sickly, pallid skin and dark circles under his eyes, lank hair combed severely to one side. The aura about him seemed about the same, heavy and sour but unusually intense for anyone so young. Viuus felt it too, his brows pressed low with concern.

“You’re the Inquisitor,” said the boy. “Mother never told me the Inquisitor was an elf.”

“The ears gave me away, didn’t they.”

He gave a solemn shake of his head. “No. Your blood is very old, I saw it right away.”

I smiled despite the oddly hollow tone of his voice, remembering what it was to be a child so full of magic I could scarcely describe the world around me.

“Did you? That’s very clever. You must be Kieran.”

“I thought you’d be scarier. Mother said you were scary.”

With a conspiratorial glance from over the top of the boy's head, Viuus cut in. “And who is your mother?”

“Mother is the inheritor, she who awaits the next age.”

The strange mix of childlike pride and prescience settled uncomfortably in my chest, a pang of regret for having abandoned the Well of Sorrows to his mother

“Oh? Perhaps she’s simply waiting for you. Let’s go find her.”

Kieran took my hand of his own accord, set out across the garden. Viuus followed along at my side, watching as the boy traced the dormant lines of magic in my palm.

“A curious child,” he said.

“Wait ’til you meet his mother.”

“Mother, look! Did you see what’s on her hand?”

I was so focused on not tripping over my skirts as Kieran all but dragged me up the steps of the gazebo, that I scarcely looked up when he thrust out my arm to show her. So it was with a searing shock of surprise to find Solas standing in the shadows beside Morrigan, regal in the furs and leather of his battlemage robe. 

We’d settled into a comfortable distance on the journey from Wycome, but with my thighs sticky from…Oh, gods, the wrongness of it crushed against my heart. _Vhenan._ It was only the mask of The Game that kept my wits about me so that I could turn to Morrigan with a bemused smile.

“Look who I found wandering alone in the garden.”

“Unhand the Lady Inquisitor, Kieran,” said Morrigan, her irritation melting into something soft and fond. “Did I not already bid you sweet slumber in the Fade?”

The boy looked between me and Solas, then back to his mother. “But—”

“Tis not a debate, little man.”

Kieran released me with obvious reluctance, and I let my outstretched hand turn into a flourish of introduction, at once deeply grateful for the sterile confines of courtly grace.

“Lady Morrigan, allow me to present Speaker Viuus Anaxas, of the Mortalitasi. Morrigan is one of my principle advisors in matters of the occult.”

Viuus dropped into a bow befitting a lady of so vague a station, and the witch offered her hand.

“An elusive sect,” she intoned.

“Only in that our duty affords little opportunity for travel.”

“How fortunate then that circumstance should bring you hence.”

“The greater fortune is in discovering so many fellow scholars of the arcane,” he said, nodding to Solas, who returned the gesture with icy aplomb.

“A few too many, t’would seem." 

I had hoped she'd have made her peace with Solas after his advice earned her the Well, but evidently she still held him in low esteem.

“Is there something amiss?”

“Indeed there is, for I was assured upon joining the Inquisition that I would answer to none but yourself.”

“That assurance remains.”

She turned to give Solas a sly smile, “Then pray inform this meddlesome fool that any examination of the,” she paused to consider Viuus, “ _artifact_ shall occur at my sole discretion.”

I didn’t need to know the particulars of their quarrel— each was fiercely determined to be the sole arbiter of elven magic and lore. Now the balance of power had shifted, and though she no doubt she meant to remind him, it was beyond childish to do so with so many curious eyes and ears open all around.

“I would be more than happy to address your concerns in the morning, Lady Morrigan, but for now I have a banquet to attend.”

Solas politely inclined his head. “No doubt many urgent affairs require your attention.”

Irrational guilt churned at my stomach, shame flushing high across my neck. He couldn’t possibly know. He couldn’t possibly mean to suggest…My paranoia was smothered by Morrigan’s pique.

“Am I to believe the mighty Herald of Andraste stands powerless to forfend such intrusions?”

“No more than you. Ward the door if you like, but if your skills are insufficient to the task I’ll have Commander Cullen station guards at the door.”

She seethed at the notion but withdrew, and I looked to Solas, disbelieving that he required an explanation of anything so fundamental as the respect of private property. But instead of the quiet scholar he presented to the world, his eyes were narrow above a half formed snarl.

“I should think that you of all people would not suffer a human mage to lay claim on elven treasure."

“Was that not your very recommendation in the Arbor Wilds?”

“That,” he snapped, “was for your protection! Had I known you’d make it a matter of policy,” he ground himself to a halt, clenching his jaw. “By your leave, Inquisitor.”

As he stalked out across the garden, the space between each heartbeat seemed to stretch toward infinity. I hadn’t seen his composure so frayed since the day we’d brought Thom Rainier back to Skyhold in chains, when he was one hard push from…

No.

Gods, no, it was a sickness that my heart sang to imagine he might feel anything at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, gods, does anyone still remember when I used to post every day? I'm irrationally proud to get another chapter out the door so soon. Feels like I'm barreling toward the abyss....


	88. Truth is Not the End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Since I wound up glossing over "Here Lies the Abyss," I wanted to take some time to delve into Rial's experience in the Raw Fade this time around, leading up to her meeting with Flemeth. Nearly all of the dialogue at the end is verbatim from the game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to be perfectly clear: I'm not convinced [we actually visit the Black City](http://canticle-of-apotheosis.tumblr.com/post/124597156827/wait-have-we-already-been-to-the-black-city) when Kieran takes us into the Fade. Thanks to fly-cam folks, we know this scene takes place on the same map used for Here Lies the Abyss, but whether that's an expression of Fade geography or a technical constraint remains to be seen.
> 
> Nevertheless, I like the idea and think it well within Flemeth or Kieran's divine power to direct the eluvian wherever they damn well please. I mean, if you were a god arranging a meeting in the Fade, the Black City would be a wonderful choice if only because it would guarantee that no spirits, demons, or Dreamers could interfere. Plus, it's ostensibly an entire city, so they could easily visit the outskirts with little fanfare.
> 
> Anyhow, for the purpose of this story, what's important is that you literally can't see the Black City from any _playable_ angle. We can refrain from over-analyzing that because we know it's a game, but a detail like that would be a Freaking Big Deal to a mage who's spent every night of her adult life in the Fade. Rial is utterly convinced she's somewhere within Black City, but I do not mean to suggest that her perceptions of the world (here or elsewhere) are canonically true.

It wasn’t the Crossroads, and I wasn’t dreaming.

The weight of realization pressed down against my chest, until there was no room to draw another breath, no space for my heart to beat. The world spasmed sideways and out, groaning like a ship that strained against the storm. I blinked back to clear my vision, but the sickly green remained.

Oh, gods, please, no.

A tattered scrap of flotsam drifted past, and I followed it up and up and up until I was looking at the fade-touched clouds. I staggered away from the eluvian, turning a slow circle in search of the only landmark I knew and finding nothing in its place. Just tendrils of emerald fog parting to reveal streaks of clear blue sky.

Dread pushed me forward, as if a few extra steps from the wall might suddenly reveal an entire city hidden from my view, but there was nothing behind me save the memory of the Breach. The Black City wasn’t gone— it was the ground beneath my heels and the dust between my toes.

I managed a shaky breath, and the magic that hung heavy in the air condensed around me as if I were a glass of cold water. Raw mana beaded up on my skin, streamed from my tunic in rivulets, pooled in the palm of my hand to form a spectral staff. 

Amalia uncurled herself from the place where she slept tight beneath my ribs, stretching until she inhabited every inch of my skin. We were too fat with power to be afraid, but the both of us stirred with nervous energy; we’d been lured to this place for a purpose.

All around, broken turrets and towers teetered out at odd angles, opening to admit stairs that led to nowhere, windows that looked out on nothing. Straight ahead, the statue of a robed man pointed west.

Crossing under his shadow, we found Andraste’s head divorced from her shoulders, half buried in the dirt and crowned with moss. Her sightless eyes gazed out on the Dead Hand, down-turned to dangle a pair of skeletal soldiers like puppets from a string. They twisted in their nooses, booted feet pirouetting just above a dinner table emblazoned with the Qun. Six place settings were laid out at the table, but only four glasses of wine accompanied the macabre feast: two human skulls, a boar’s head, a goat’s head, a red-skinned fish, and a half-eaten pie.

I turned and let the Fade carry me away, down a corridor that fed into a flight of rough hewn stairs. A glint of silverite caught my eye, and I bent to find a small ring hidden beneath a glowing spike of everite. It surged with elemental magic in the palm of my hand, whispered with the promise of lightning to come. I slipped it onto the bare finger that used to belong to Fen'Harel; Dagna would have a field day if I made it home alive.

There was no way forward but down, so I followed the stairs until the stone opened up into something like a great hall or cathedral. It was empty but for a strange iron throne and the statue of a headless man, arms outstretched to hold a severed ram’s head aloft. If Morrigan had come this way, she was already gone; there was no place for a small boy to hide.

A second flight of stairs led me deeper still, to a corridor flanked by the Claws of Dumat. The Fade grew darker with my descent, and in the flickering veilfire light I saw a flash of pale skin and aubergine silk. 

“Morrigan!”

The figure paused and turned to shout. “Go back. I must find Kieran before it’s too late.”

I summoned a barrier and broke into a run, as fearful that I could lose her as I was fearful of a trap. How easily a demon could take her skin, let me think I’d reached my goal. But not even a demon would be clever enough to ignore me, which was exactly what Morrigan had done, turning away to mutter almost incoherently to herself.

“Why would Kieran do this, _how_ could he do this? We stand in the fade, to direct the eluvian here would require immense power. If he is lost to me now after all I have sacrificed...”

I darted ahead to interrupt. “We’ll find him, Morrigan, he can’t be far.”

“The fade is infinite,” she snapped, pushing past. “He could literally be anywhere.”

“The fade is a place of purpose. We need only focus.”

“Whatever happens to him now tis my doing, _I_ set him on this path. Please help me look, Inquisitor, just a little longer.”

“As long as it takes. I swear it.”

If Morrigan doubted my intent, she showed no sign, only a brief glimmer of gratitude in her strangely luminous eyes. We fell into a comfortable lope, her long human legs easily matching my stride, and together trekked deeper into the twisted landscape. Eventually, we came to a circular dais where red lyrium erupted from every angle, its corruption shimmering in the air like a mirage. In the center stood a wicked scepter, or an obelisk of razor, engulfed in red lyrium. Even the towers above seemed to bend toward its song.

Strange specters rose up to meet us, flying out as if to guide our path; we ran on, following them past a quiet library, past monuments of skull and bone, resigning secrets that lay buried throughout the ages to wait ages more. We did not even stop at the foot of a staircase flanked by winged guardians clad in silverite, and though we took the stairs two at a time, we soon lost sight of our guides.

At the top of the stairs, the Fade burst open into some sort of ritual chamber, and I came skidding to a halt.

Blood. There was blood everywhere. Not an imitation or a memory conjured from the ether, but real. It poured out from the hooded eyes of The Watcher bowed in defeat, crimson waterfalls bathing an alter of bones, and writhing out across the floor in the shape of a snake eating its tail. The bloodsong itched along my skin, power ripe for the taking, but wrong. Desperately wrong.

“There he is,” said Morrigan, fingers clammy on my arm, and for the first time I noticed anything other than blood.

Kieran stood in the center of the rune, some unfamiliar magic pouring from him in waves, crashing over a woman knelt at his feet. Her hair was like moonlight on snow, and bound into thick horns beneath an Andrastian crown. Creators, almighty.

“Who’s that with him?”

“That’s…no. It can’t be.”

Morrigan leapt forward, practically flying toward her son, and I barely caught up to her in time to see the childlike exuberance that spread over Kieran's face when he saw her. He dropped his hand, snuffing out whatever pale blue wisp he had called.

“Mother!”

But Morrigan stood as still as stone, and her voice was even colder still. “Mother.”

“Now, isn’t this a surprise,” said the woman, rising to her feet with a sly smile.

My heart stuttered: Asha’bellanar. Human. Undeniably human. It was Amalia that locked my knee from bowing, Amalia who kept my voice careless and light. “So this is all some kind of family reunion?” 

Asha’bellanar laughed, genuine mirth crinkling the corners of her eyes and folding the skin at her mouth. She affectionately draped one arm across Kieran’s shoulders, but turned her cat’s eyes on me.

“Mother, daughter, grandson, it rather warms the heart, does it not?”

Something about her expression pulled me in, as if some unspoken detail made me part of the family and part of the joke, but Morrigan was not warmed in the least. She stalked right up to the edge of the blood rune, nearly shaking with rage.

“Kieran is not your grandson. Let him go.”

“As if I were holding the boy hostage,” her mother replied before dipping her chin to address Kieran alone. “She’s always been ungrateful, you see.”

“Ungrateful," Morrigan exclaimed. "I know how you plan to extend your life, wicked crone. You will not have me and you will not have my son!”

Morrigan pulled at the raw mana all around, threading power between her fingers and coiling it up her arms. Magic sprang to my fingers as well, though I planned only to cast barriers around them both; I'd not tolerate violence against Asha’bellanar, nor could I allow harm to befall an heir to the Vir’abelasan. But my concern was premature, and Asha'bellanar more than capable of her own defense.

“That’s quite enough,” she said. “You’ll endanger the boy.”

The entire Fade trembled as a pulse of cool blue light flared in her amber eyes. Oh, gods, I’d seen that crackling light before— a spirit lived within her, and it was that spirit, not the human, who negated Morrigan’s magic from the inside out. The witch stumbled forward, eyes wild.

“What have you done to me?”

“I have done nothing. You drank from the Well of your own volition.”

Time seemed to stop as the implication took hold, and ten thousand alternate explanations vied to take its place. It was Morrigan who found the strength to speak the blasphemy first.

“You...are Mythal.”

“You can’t be Mythal," I said without conviction. "That’s not possible.”

“Explain to me, dear girl, why I cannot be what I am.”

She was power incarnate, and possessed to be sure, but the All-Mother would not abandon us to live among the humans. To be a human. To raise a human daughter. To leave us with nothing, less than nothing, and walk hidden through our midst, raised from the dead by a Dalish pariah.

“Mythal was an elven god, you, you’re—”

“Human,” she finished, thoroughly amused. “Not a word many have used for me in a very long time.”

“You can’t expect us to believe that.”

I was fighting on principle even while the world crumbled all around. Asha’bellanar turned to her daughter with a sort of smug delight.

“You hear the voices of the well, girl. What do they say?”

Morrigan shook her head in defeat. “They…they say you speak the truth.”

Oh, gods. Creators, mercy. “You _carry_ Mythal inside you.”

“She is a part of me, no more separate than your heart from your chest,” said the goddess, looking through me to Amalia, daring us deny the dichotomy. “But what was Mythal? A legend given name and called a god, or something more? Truth is not the end, but a beginning.”

Her words cut to the heart of me, to the truth I didn’t dare tell my clan, and the truth unfolding before me now. I felt her magic against my skin, but it wasn’t a caress. She was a whetstone, grinding away the dogma that dulled me.

I would forever regret not submitting to her will in the Arbor Wilds, but I was forgiven.

I would be her sword.


	89. When He Rises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle in the Valley of Sacred Ashes

The five of us tore out of the War Room, and it might as well have been a mind blast that threw the whole of Skyhold from our path. The great hall thrummed with tension, courtiers scrambling in useless panic while couriers swarmed anxiously to our side.

Leliana’s voice was ice behind me, cold commands that turned her scouts from fear to action, while Josephine’s was warm and soothing to herd the nobles downstairs. Their startled screams rose up as Morrigan erupted into a cloud of wasps, but I was moving too fast to care, hot on Cullen’s heels as he shouldered past the rotunda door.

The crack of stone on steel announced our arrival, and a sharp Tevinter swear from Dorian answered in return. Solas spun at the intrusion, dodging back to avoid the Commander’s charge toward the exit on the outer wall.

“Blackwall’s with me,” I shouted after him, even as I reached for Solas with my Anchored hand.

It wasn’t a thing that required explanation— the mark was bleeding out magic I couldn’t contain. He didn’t need to see the sky to know the Breach had been reopened.

In the absolute urgency of the moment, we had time only for instinct. He snatched up my outstretched hand, threading it under his arm as he turned, pulling me against his back in a once familiar pose. How many hours had I held him like that, letting Solas study the Anchor while I thumbed circles down his spine?

But this was field surgery, not some leisurely examination, and I grit my teeth when his magic plunged roughly into the Anchor. He twisted up something inside, a knot to stop the thread unspooling within. It wasn’t pain exactly, but my vision went white, and I couldn’t stop myself from letting my other hand fall to his hip, setting fingertips against bone.

He cupped both hands around the Anchor, and sank his own mana into the mark. Not a kiss but an infusion, borrowed strength because we’d never learned how to feed the Anchor with lyrium. It seemed to draw from the orb alone, and it was only thanks to his studies of the Rift that Solas had found a way to bolster it with energy drawn from the Fade.

“Try it now.”

My fingers twitched against the roiling magic, and at last I closed the Anchor.

“It will not hold,” he said with no small measure of urgency. “We must recover the orb.”

There was so much kindness in the false hope he infused in the word. _We._ No, there would be no recovering from what was to come. But I looked up at him and nodded just the same; he didn’t need to know that I didn’t believe.

Just as I stepped back to turn toward the door, Dorian burst out from the stairwell, fully armored with a flaming staff in hand.

“It just so happens that I was about to take a stroll. Care to join me? Remarkable weather we’re having.”

His eyes were narrowed in sly amusement, and I beamed up at my handsome Tevinter, hoping he would remember _this_ and not what was to come, when I’d order him to stay at Cassandra’s side. If the Imperium were to ever recover from Corypheus’ legacy, it would need him alive. The Seeker too, lest the truth of Tranquility die with her, and the order resume its corruption.

“Ten minutes, shemlen. Scramble everyone to the stables.”

I nearly collided with Varric when I whirled for the door, another man who’d not forgive being left behind. This was a battle he’d fought before, one he intended to finish, but not the one I needed him to fight. I caught him by the collar as I ran out into the great hall.

We bolted past whatever stragglers still milled about, fanning themselves and taking vapors, poncy human lords who didn’t remember Haven, didn’t think their lives could possibly be in danger. Gods protect them if I failed.

Varric pounded up the stairs behind me, but in other ways he was two steps ahead. “The words ‘protect the women and children’ come outta that mouth and so help me—” 

“No, no, by all means protect the menfolk too.”

“Ha! As if Bianca’d let me sit on my ass when we could be ripping Corypheus a new one.”

By the time I hit the marble stairs, I was already half-out of my tunic. “I know you want to be there, but if you die, the story dies.”

“Ain’t that some romantic shit.”

Varric made a show of warming his hands by the fire while I shucked off the rest of my clothes, gave myself over to the familiar routine of my armor. A Keeper’s armor, because I would have them remember that I was Dalish.

“If I was ever your friend, do for me what you did for Hawke.”

“Now, look, don’t get all Grey Warden on me here.” 

I pressed my lips together and blew out a dismissive sound. “Of course _I’ll_ be fine. But if you’re dead, who’s going to remind the world that an elven apostate with the power of a god isn’t a threat waiting to be neutralized? Besides, imagine the royalties. Help me with these.”

He dashed over and knelt to fasten the buckles on my greaves. “I just couldn’t resist tracking those Carta fuckers down. Oh, hey, look, a blood magic prison, sounds like fun. I’ll just let my best friend cut herself open, what could possibly go wrong?”

“Don’t flatter yourself. He would have escaped one way or the other.” I shrugged on my pauldrons, lacing their ties through the loops of my light leather breastplate.

“Yeah? And would he have found all that red lyrium if I hadn’t dug up that thaig? I might as well have handed him the blighted key. This one’s on me.” 

“It’s not. Anyone can kill Corypheus now, Morrigan knows his secret, but you’re the only one I trust to get a message to my Keeper.”

He yanked the last strap tight enough to pinch. “So I’m your errand boy now.”

“I can’t send a human to the Dalish and you know it.” I grabbed my staff from its place on the wall, swung it around in a broad arc to snap my mana into focus. “Tell her everything you saw on Sundermount with Merrill, and that I met Asha’bellanar in the raw Fade.”

“Wait, when did—”

Satisfied that it was as balanced as time could afford, I let it catch on the holster across my back. “Tell her Asha’bellanar and Flemeth are one and the same, possessed by Mythal. Tell Deshanna that she intends to avenge the Great Betrayal, her reckoning is at hand.”

“Shit,” he said, drawing out the word while I jogged over to my desk, grabbing a letter I’d written on the voyage from Wycome, then flying back down the stairs.

“If she believes you, and that’s a big if, give her this. If she doesn’t, go back to Kirkwall and give it to Merrill. She’ll know what to do.”

“Really, really, really don’t like the sound of Daisy as anyone’s fallback plan. Good kid, but…”

I paused at the door and turned to face him, hoping he was in a place to listen. “If I’m not here to beat sense into you later, remember this: it wasn’t Corypheus or red lyrium that tore open the sky, yeah? It was the orb. It’s nothing to do with you.”

Varric narrowed his eyes as if I were bluffing him in Wicked Grace, then shook his head. He was angry, but resigned. Maybe someday he’d even believe me.

“Yeah, well, my editor’s been hounding me to go on a book tour through the Marches. Might as well hit up Wycome while I’m at it.”

I ruffled one hand through his chest hair for luck, then swung open the door. Cullen met us in the great hall, bringing me up to speed as we ran to the stables. Cassandra had taken a small party of scouts on ahead with Iron Bull and the Chargers, while Fiona led the rebel mages in warding Skyhold, reinforcing the veil should it need to withstand an attack.

The bailey was totally silent, eerie beneath the Breach. No sparring in the practice yards, no hammering from the forge. Everyone had taken up their post or refuge, and even the tavern was dark. Cullen and I jogged down the stairs to the lower ward, empty but for Master Dennet, who led Cullen’s charger and Shartan out to meet us.

“Alright, Inquisition. Up you go. Sent your boys and girls on across the bridge. Horses can’t hardly stand still under a sky like that.”

I thanked him as the Commander and I rode out to meet our party, such as it was. I felt like I should say something, offer some last piece of encouragement or hope, but they’d known me from the start. I was the only one among them who hadn’t joined by choice, and I’d not insult their sacrifice by pretending to be anything other than what I was.

Now, there was nothing to do but ride. We galloped out along the snowy pass, where the moon hung so low the whole valley shimmered with its light. I thought only of Shartan’s rhythm beneath me, of the road ahead, of what must be done.

“So young and vibrant. You do The People proud and have come far. As for me…I have had many names.”

Compassion was a ghost beside me, light in his saddle as we galloped along the mountain pass. At last I truly understood how expertly he could pick and choose so that what was held in secret could be public and private all at once.

“She wanted you to know she was a woman.”

I sank into my heels and blinked back tears, still awed that the All-Mother had revealed herself to me at all, much less while choosing to stand on common ground.

“When he rises, she wants you to remember that he is just a man.”

It was peace, then, that washed over me. The whole world was betrayed, but Mythal would lie silent no more. When she brought about her reckoning, the heavens would shake because I was the one who made them whole. I would not fail her in that.

Shartan surged forward with my swell of pride, prompting Blackwall and Vivienne to race ahead, drawing swords of steel and spirit as the first of the demon hoard drew near. As we thundered through their midst, Solas cast a barrier that kept venomous claws from cutting the legs out from under our mounts, while Dorian dispelled whatever miasma came seeping from their ranks.

I’d never ridden into battle, but Shartan showed no fear. He leapt over demonic corpses as easily as fallen trees, reared up to trample rage demons as if they were common wolves. I tightened my thighs around him and whispered Amalia’s name. She rolled out with my exhale, a specter of death that consumed lesser demons in stride.

I glimpsed a blush of red lyrium at the base of the mountain; there was no mistaking the distant clash of steel. All around, huge chunks of the fallen temple were hefting themselves into the sky, and then I saw him in the distance. Corypheus. Orb in hand.

At that moment a blast of blood red light ripped through Solas’ barrier, and all of us were thrown back. It was only a burst of focus that let me slip from the stirrups and spring from Shartan’s back.

He was screaming in pain as I landed, a wild sound like I’d never heard, and then silent. When I turned, Compassion was standing over him with blades drawn and bloody, Blackwall climbing to his feet just behind. I nodded at the knowing look he gave me, acknowledgment of a bargain struck long ago.

The veil rippled between one heartbeat and the next, then Solas appeared at my side— that much had never been in question. Our eyes met and I was reminded of that night at the veilfire torch when he’d been so confident and proud. We’d been building toward this, ever toward this, even if I’d been distracted along the way; I offered him a tight lipped smile.

The four of us cut through the tangle of shrieks and shades, deliberately leaving the others behind. Together we broke closer to the fore, where the field reeked of ichor and red lyrium sang. They would not remember Cole, but Thedas would know it was elven mages who saved them and that Thom Rainier had paid his due.

Cassandra caught sight of us and struck down a Terror that sprang into our path, but it was Scout Harding of all people that fell into step behind me.

“Not that I think you need them,” she said, clipping what could only be a pouch of restoratives to my belt.

There wasn’t even time for me to whisper my thanks as a booming voice filled the night air.

“I knew you would come.”

From the steps of what was once the main entrance to the temple, Corypheus bent his massive frame into an ironic bow. I gathered mana into my staff and lightning cracked, testing at his defenses.

“It ends here, Corypheus.”

“And so it shall.”

Like the conductor he claimed to be, he slowly drew both hands into the air. There was a sound like thunder as rock and earth were torn in two. The bottom of my stomach dropped out; the whole temple was being lifted in his grasp and hurtled toward the Breach.

“Holy Creators.”

I’d not even begun to fathom the power of the orb, or how small a sliver of its strength I possessed. I staggered forward, swaying with the speed of our ascent. Corypheus fixed his eyes on mine, and there was no need for me to look away— he was just a man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So....there's only one more chapter left to go? The question is, do I end this at 90, wait for for DLC and tack on the rest of the story, or make Wolf Hunt a separate story of its own?


	90. Her Faith is Hard Won

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final battle with Corypheus, hopefully given the weight it deserves.

The moon was wreathed in clouds of jagged earth and stone.

I’d seen it before, in a ruined courtyard where the Breach was the sky’s only sun. The same thing was happening again, happening now, recreating a world in the shape of my nightmare. Everything was Fading green and grey, but for eyes glowing red in the corner of a darkened cell.

_This world is an abomination, it must never come to pass._

I slammed my stave into the ground while the ruins continued to rumble and sway, determined that this would not be that world. There was a man still dead at my feet in Redcliffe, and I would see that debt repaid.

Corypheus all but sauntered across what was once the vestibule of the temple and swept his arms out wide. I tensed for an attack, but he simply met my gaze and splayed his palms in a courtly gesture.

“You have been most successful in foiling my plans.”

Something magnanimous rang in his voice, an echo of the priest he must have been. Back before he claimed to be a god and simply served one. But then it turned to drip with disdain.

“Let us not forget what you are. A thief, in the wrong place at the wrong time. An interloper. A gnat. We shall prove here, once and for all, which of us is worthy of godhood.”

I smiled because it was true, and because he was each of those things and yet even less. I’d met the All-Mother and basked in her pride. I stepped forward so that he could see the truth of my claim before I even spoke it.

“I champion a living god.”

Corypheus glared in open hate, and a scoffing noise scraped along the back of his throat as his dragon hefted itself onto the crenelations behind him. Bits of masonry crumbled beneath the sheer weight of it, and a guttural purr reverberated through the ruins.

If Corypheus expected me to tremble as I had in Haven, he would be sorely disappointed. Even as its muscles bunched to lunge, his dragon was mere prey for the daughter of Mythal.

A slash of emerald lanced through the fade-touched sky, slamming into the other dragon with enough force to ruffle the short fringe of hair at my brow. In a furious tangle of wings and claws, they somersaulted once, then twice before colliding against the tower wall, tumbling over the edge in a shower of dirt and debris.

Corypheus snapped to attention, twisted face twisting deeper in scorn. “You dare.”

He saturated the air with ancient magic that throbbed against my palm. Solas shuddered against it, but I felt only the calm of a gathering storm.

The time for posturing was over.

I caught Blackwall’s eye and he charged, shield raised and glinting while Solas and I fell back, staggering ourselves closely enough to share a barrier without tangling our spells. We moved as one, a song I’d nearly forgotten, lightning and ice drawn across the veil.

“A dragon, how clever,” Corypheus shouted. “But it will avail you nothing. You will fall as a warning to those who oppose my divine will.”

A static charge welled up in my palm and burst through my stave, raw electricity bounding around Corypheus like a cage. Arctic winds whipped through the ruins, and snow piled at his feet. The magister sneered, unimpressed, unaware of a knife in the shadows.

He howled and lunged when Cole struck, but my lightning snapped him back to center, to where Blackwall crouched with his sword. Steel clanged against lyrium, sparking sickly red. It was as perfect a first volley as we could have hoped for, but something was wrong.

Very wrong.

While Solas called out frost, I broke away to scout the terrain. Skirting along the border of our island, I tuned out the sounds of battle to peer out as far over the edge as I dared. Curls of smoke and burning ember dotted the Frostbacks below, but I saw nothing on the platforms above.

No legion of red Templars, or cloistered Venatori, not even a handful of Grey Warden thralls. We were alone, utterly alone. My magic stretched out across the veil, searching for hidden rifts or mages but sensing none. And that’s when it hit me— he didn’t intend to survive.

Corypheus meant to die with us when the ruins fell, let his soul respawn in the Deep Roads, strike again when I was gone. Oh, gods. He could still win. If I died before the Breach was closed, the future I saw in Redcliffe would still unfold. But if I could…

Recovering the orb, and with it power enough to seal the Breach, was all that mattered. Everything else was something anyone else could do.

I whirled around just as the veil buckled and thrummed, flashing to blue as Solas caught me by the elbow, the same sick realization in his stormy eyes.

“The orb.”

“We have to draw out the battle, give Morrigan more time.”

“How far could you step through the Fade if—”

“Not far enough.” 

He required no further explanation, whipping his staff along the invisible path of a figure eight; across the terrace an eruption of ice routed Corypheus toward higher ground. Blackwall roared at the outrage as we ran, throwing his weight against the wall to send a spray of chipped ice in the air to greet us.

He spun, flushed beneath his helmet. “I bloody well had him!”

“Therein lies the problem.”

“We cannot land a killing blow until,” I stopped short, unwilling to even speak the words lest some foul wisp carry them away. “Until.”

His eyes flickered to the Breach then down to me, and I was forced to reconsider. It had only been the glow of red lyrium— Thom Rainer had yet to break a sweat. 

“Could do this all day.”

“You may have to, the witch is new to her form.”

“Have faith. She’s the child of an elven god.”

Not until I’d jumped across the chasm that split the stairs did I realized my slip, but there was no time to explain. I bounded up the stairs two at a time, bursting onto the terrace where Corypheus perched upon the highest ledge. Blackwall barreled past, spewing profanities to lure him down, but the magister paid him no mind.

“Your dragon is persistent,” he called out to me. “I will tear it from the skies.”

The veil sagged with the weight of his poisoned magic, and a snap decision sent me darting out into the open when the dragons thundered past. Electricity flared from my stave, bolting near enough to singe his feathered pauldrons. Let him think me a poorly trained _rattus._

“You dare to touch the avatar of divinity?”

I flicked one hand into a gesture Jovan’d taught me long ago, then cast another tepid bolt. He narrowed his eyes at the indignity, and heat sprang into the stone beneath my feet. Blighted lyrium burst up in jagged crystals, throwing me down hands and knees in the rubble.

Gods, it would stoke his ego to see a broken bow.

A trickle of blood sang up along the back of my calf, and I stood as if pained by a simple cut. I made a sloppy attempt to avoid twin beams of blighted magic, then let the blinding red light engulf me. The onslaught pulsed across the veil, dissonant and dark. Divine.

I drew a deep breath, waiting for the worst of it to pass, then let my barrier dissolve. Searing brightness drove me back to my knees, and I fought the Dalish instinct to lock my jaw. Oh, for this human, I would scream.

The sound of it was unrecognizable, breaking the focus that lifted me above the pain. I thrashed, no longer pretending but lost. Creators, gods, _fuck._ Burning, bone breaking pressure, inescapable, unendurable, something raw in my gut.

“If you desire death, you shall have it!”

Something shifted higher, hotter, sharper, and I tasted stone. Rubble scraped my teeth, and I was choking on dirt, coughing up blood, arching up to vomit out thick, violet smoke. I fisted up rock while Amalia streamed from my mouth in steady heaves, forced out of hiding. Enraged.

There was no nightmare that could strangle him, no death on which to feed. 

A fresh barrier snapped up around me just as clammy fingers pushed into my mouth. Then it was smooth glass against my lips, bitterness down my throat, soothing light, and _strength._ I scrabbled at his neck, hauled myself forward to flee, guided by faith and momentum alone.

When my vision cleared, Compassion was easing me down against a marble column, pressing an open vial into my palm. I panted around it for a moment before tilting my head to drink, and in the cold light of the Breach above, I saw two dragons sailed across the sky.

“You made him forget.”

I sniffed back a trickle of blood, too winded to laugh— arrogance would consume him. Cole’s hat cocked to the side as he turned, revealing the pale pink curve of a frown.

“You should not do that again.”

Behind us, icy winds howled over the sound of clashing steel. I turned to glimpse where Blackwall drew Corypheus along in a dance of half-hearted blows, lunging and feinting but never touching, an all too perfect waste of time.

Morrigan was nowhere to be seen, safe for now from the magister’s wrath. “How is she?”

“Flying, feral, ferocious. She thinks that Neria lied.”

My mind stuttered past the words to her determination in his voice. It was enough. It would have to be enough. The air grew still, and we hurried out to rejoin the others beneath a wide arch at the foot of a tower thrown off its foundation by red lyrium.

Blackwall nodded at our arrival, looking inexplicably smug. “That took stones.”

“Thanks for making it count.”

I tagged his arm as I jogged past, hitting the stairs at a run. We pursued Corypheus through the ruins, racing ever up. At each landing we glimpsed demons streaking from the sky and flashes of glinting scale, but my thoughts were on the Breach.

I’d have mere seconds when the time came, when I finally had the orb. I knew then the terrible pressure Dorian once faced, and I could only pray to match his focus. For an instant, his voice all but lilted in my ear. _Well, I’m not surprised you’d think of me in your final moments, but come along now. We’ve a world to save._

Cole laughed, a bright and borrowed sound.

“Downright unsettling,” said Blackwall, panting as we topped the landing.

It was wearing on him now, the weight of his armor and the endless climbing. If Solas were tiring, he showed no hint but for a white knuckled grip on his stave. I felt the false strength of restoratives and lyrium, but beneath it the steady pull of power in my palm.

We reached a stretch of stairs where nothing of the tower remained to shelter us from the sky. A knot of snarling amethyst and emerald dove past, dragons plunged through the air— clawing, slashing, screaming, falling, then pulling apart to fight for higher ground.

With their cries to spur us on, the final stretch passed in a blur and we burst out from the tower into Mafereth’s shadow.

The Gauntlet.

Or what was left of it.

The walls fell away to reveal the scope of a battle that spanned the sky. The dragons raced between the towers that twisted in slow orbits around us, then doubled back again to glide across the open expanse beneath the Breach.

Morrigan darted through a narrow pass, close enough for jagged rock to scrape her scales. The blighted dragon was reckless in its pursuit, careening against the outcrop and screeching in rage. Fury shot it forward, but Morrigan lurched out of reach to heave herself higher than before. 

Once, twice, then again she hefted up on leather wings, while the Elder One’s dragon climbed in lazy circles. The sound of their wings was lost amid peels of thunder, giving the impression they flew in eerie silence. Blackwall came to stand beside me, tipping back the visor of his helmet to squint up at the glowing skies.

“Does she mean to take it through the Breach?”

“Quite the opposite.”

Even as Solas said the words, Morrigan tucked her wings and _screamed_. My heart dropped with her as she fell, headfirst, a cannonball of dragonbone and scale. She slammed talons-first into the other dragon and they plunged.

One dark wing lashed out and snapped, a sick, wet crunch that sent them into a tailspin. I held my breath, waiting to see which one would land on top, but then they were out of sight, out of sky, and the whole world lurched at their impact.

“Morrigan!”

I took off, flinging myself up and over the crenelations to a small disc of earth dragged up in the wake of the temple. A mind-blast cushioned my fall, and I hit the ground running, felt the grass between my toes. The purple-skinned dragon lay in a tangled heap, tail lashing as it struggled to stand.

It was a massive thing and gravely injured, oh gods, but it could still glide away and Morrigan was nowhere to be found. If I’d screamed in pain when Corypheus attacked, it was soul-sick determination that drove it from me now. Amalia flew out ahead to drape herself around it like a shroud, singing blood into my veins.

I came skidding to a halt with the swell of ancient power, more than I could possibly contain. My fingers flew across the veil and I threw my arms open wide. Electricity burned along the patterned air, a barrage of raw energy channeled straight from my core, six quick convulsions before I was released. The dragon reared back to bat away the orbs of light that swarmed around it, then screamed and clutched a foreleg to its chest. In a flash of blue, it was caught in a column of ice as Solas and Blackwall appeared beneath it. 

I ran for higher ground while the dragon hissed against the crash of Blackwall’s shield, and I turned in time to see it swat him back. By then Cole had circled round to have at the ice-damaged leg, while Solas coaxed out frost runes to slow it down.

There’d be no containing a dragon in a static cage, but I cast it just the same, knotting up the energy of the veil just across its back. Lightning bolted around its wings and Blackwall’s sword glinted with electric light, then I smiled as a familiar barrier brushed against my skin.

Solas stood at edge of my peripheral vision, falling into an easy rhythm as he cast. I spared a glance in his direction while I wove a chain of lightning, startled to discover him looking at me already, eyes flashing with something I couldn’t explain. It was—

The dragon screamed and my world went black, but I didn’t need to see. 

I threw lightning and Solas drew ice, then we feinted back when the dragon turned. When it spun again, Cole and Solas moved in unison, flashing blades and a glimmer of Fade to strip its guard. Blackwall crouched at its back, swinging his weight into a strike that slashed deep enough to sever tendon from bone.

On and on it went, the four of us attacking and retreating, slowly shifting across the field, but through it all I couldn’t help but notice the change. Solas moved with rare determination, not grim but expectant. I’d seen him face certain death, _I’d seen him die,_ but I’d not seen this Solas in battle since the day we met. Back when— 

A furious wind kicked up around as the dragon danced into the air on a broken wing. Solas grabbed my arm to keep the vortex from pulling me in, but I could feel the grass dragging through my toes and he lost me. For a second it was churning confusion in the eye of the storm, dodging legs and talons with dust in my eyes, catching sight of blades black with blood.

In a moment more I found my footing, managed two aimless shots before I broke away. Once I reached higher ground, I turned in time to see Blackwall rake his sword across the dragon’s belly, all the invitation Amalia needed to dive into its veins.

I waited, watching, conserving mana, until I knew she’d taken hold, then let an explosion of disease and pestilence rip through its heart.

_Now!_

I folded the veil and jumped, landing close enough to strike across its throat. The dragon snapped its jaws and lunged, but I was already rolling beneath it, leaping to spear it with the blade of my staff. I threw my weight against it, felt the tip scrape bone and blood splash hot across my chest before losing my grip in the spray.

The dragon reared back on its hind legs, wings churning for balance and pumping out blood with every desperate thrash. I was paralyzed by the monstrous size of it above, silhouetted in the light of the Breach.

Oh, gods, let this be it.

Armored boots pounded across the hard packed earth, and the air was knocked from my lungs. The whole world rushed backwards in an avalanche of silverite and steel, spinning confusion and bone shaking impact. Everything went still. I saw darkness, then a sliver of moonlight on silver, inhaled the scent of human sweat.

Blackwall rolled off me and onto his back, breastplate heaving, and I wheezed around a putrid gust of the dragon’s dying breath. Sticky warmth slid over my ears, and I spun to find its maw close enough to touch. I scrambled away as a tangle of mana crackled across its scales, coalescing as a wisp of light, the spark of a soul.

A streak of crimson shot up to where Corypheus stood in the arch of a long-broken window, a slash of black against the darkened sky. He staggered under the blow, struck mortal, and my breath caught when he raised the orb.

“Let it end here! Let the skies boil, let the world be rent asunder.”

The Breach throbbed at his command, and with it the Anchor. I bolted forward, yanking loose my stave and racing toward the base of the tower, doubling up the veil to burst up the stairs. Nothing and no one else mattered now.

Only the orb.

Fade-touched lightning struck at the top of the landing, the whole tower shook with thunder. I dodged a shower of rubble and stone, banked left up a flight of stairs. Light from the Fade illuminated my climb, and somewhere further ahead a booming voice rose above the chaos.

“No, I will not allow you this victory. You, and all the heathen barbarians, shall burn.”

I came to a skidding halt where the ground fell away, a chasm gaping beneath the open sky. A whole city of blackened ruins hung from the clouds, rising up to meet the Breach.

Oh, gods, it was getting bigger, ordering the waking world into the shape of the Fade.

I dropped down to the level below, pulling a barrier tight around me as I eased up the stairs. Corypheus stood in the corner of a once grand chamber, the broken tile of a mosaic beneath his feet. Blighted red magic crawled across the stone, bounding and rebounding from red lyrium crystals that littered the floor.

The orb floated in the perfect center, held aloft by some corruption. 

Amalia purred with satisfaction, he was fully human now. She lashed out with terror, the memory of an empty throne, and it was fear in his eyes when he saw me. A fresh swell of electricity poured from my stave, jolting out across the room. Corypheus was too powerful to be stunned, but he was wounded and swatting, surprised to discover a gnat knew how to sting.

He was such a fool, could’ve fought forever if only knowing not to risk his prize.

A blizzard whipped up around him, and his robes grew heavy with frost. He summoned poisoned magic into a beam of pure light, but Blackwall was unmoved beneath the onslaught, unbreakable beneath his shield. I staked the magister with lightning and when he feinted left Cole was at his right, twin fangs sinking into the meat of his thigh.

“You dare come before me, Demon? I will bind you, as I have bound so many before.”

I glimpsed a trembling spirit in my arms, begging to be bound, the amulet we gave him, the spell Solas cast, the Templar he didn’t kill. Corypheus couldn’t see Compassion beneath him, but a thousand cuts sprang up blood red against his hide.

“I am unbound,” he whispered. “And you are undone.”

The impact of Blackwall’s shield sent him reeling, and then a sword shanked against his side. Amalia struck again, forcing her way into the wound, and he convulsed with her disease.

“No,” he cried. “I will not allow you this victory.”

Corypheus stretched his arms out wide and summoned the orb. Tendrils of raw energy writhed all around, and he consumed that dark magic until his eyes became glowing embers, two points of crimson light. I had a split second to register the wave of Force magic, just enough time to hold my breath.

I landed flat on my back, head cracking against the floor and fingers curling around empty air. My stave was gone, gods give me strength; All-Mother protect me just a moment more. My vision swam as I turned toward his panicked voice.

“Not like this! I have walked the halls of the Golden City, crossed the ages…”

He’d lost sight of me completely as he wrestled with the orb. He wasn’t even touching it, but sparking it, twisting and turning in a struggle for control. The orb reacted like a magnet joined at the wrong pole, slippery and repellant.

Pain hammered behind my eyes as I rolled to press blistered palms against the blackened stone. Then the Anchor flared, driving back the haze in a moment of perfect clarity— the orb was mine.

Oh. I remembered the feel of it, the way it once rolled into the palm of my hand, the weight of its magic, and its offer. I hadn’t stolen the Anchor, I’d claimed it. I looked down in wonder, then turned to the pretender who’d never understood. _One does not obtain permission. One obtains the right._

“Dumat! Ancient ones! I beseech you!”

Corypheus was panicked and humbled by death on his door. Just a boy, helpless and alone, everything and everyone he’d ever known ten centuries dead.

“If you exist— if you ever truly existed— aid me now!”

I reached out and palmed the veil.

The Anchor sparked, every fiber of my being aligning itself to the orb. A shimmering thread ran between us, one that couldn’t be cut or broken, and with a tug it came flying home.

It floated there in my palm, content. In it I saw an emerald forest that spanned the world, endless green grass beneath its branches, and centuries of verdant moss crawling across the stone. Somewhere in the distance, Corypheus collapsed to his knees, but I saw only still water in a sheltered grove.

I was naked, wading into its depths and cupping my hands to drink.

It was lifetime after lifetime of raw mana conserved into a single pool, and I let the Anchor slip beneath the surface to drag me down. Whatever god it belonged to could have me. I hadn’t come to drink.

I’d come to drown.

Ten millennia of hoarded magic poured through me, a fountain of light to pierce the veil. The magic shifted, resonating higher, flowing faster than before, splashing into the Fade and rippling back across the sky.

My eyes snapped open when the orb fell lifeless at my feet, the sum of its power running through my palm. The Anchor couldn’t contain it anymore than needle contains a thread, but it was mine to weave between the worlds.

I remembered Corypheus on his knees before me, towering and yet so very small. I closed the distance between us to cup his misshapen cheek, slack and useless where the orb had broken his jaw.

“You wanted into the Fade?”

I tore a rift in the heart of him, unraveling the fabric of his existence from the inside out. He jerked and screamed while he still had a mouth to shape the air, but then he did not. He was not, and the veil knit itself around his absence.

A hush fell over the world, and we were falling. I caught the veil around the ruins like a sling to slow our descent, but it was beyond my skill to hold. The thread was pulling from my grasp, and I could feel myself losing consciousness, but no matter. A little longer and…

Darkness.

….I was first aware of the mundanity of my breathing, then cold winter air in my lungs, and the steady beating of my heart. I stretched myself to feel the shallow pool of my emptied mana, Amalia nestled beneath my ribs, and the Anchor in my palm. When I opened my eyes, the sky shimmered incandescent across the memory of the Breach. 

It was nearly dawn.

I heard nothing but evergreens bending with the wind, the gentle rustle of their snowy limbs. I took one breath, then another, stunned to be alive. Eventually, I found the strength to roll onto my hands and knees, to stagger forward without my stave, exhausted body and soul.

Everything hurt.

I swallowed and meant to shout, but the sound barely rasped from my throat. Where was Cole? I stumbled through the ruins in a daze, heartsick in search of the others. Creators, please, no. I’d been the sole survivor in this temple one too many times before.

The distant scuff of skin on stone was deafening, and my whole body twisted toward the sound. Solas. Oh, gods, my Solas.

I ran barefoot to where he climbed the stairs, worried at the strangeness of his gait. He walked as though wounded, hamstrung by an injury that defied my gaze. Then his steps quickened and I watched him kneel before the broken orb.

Carefully, he reached for what I’d left behind, rocking back on his heels to regard the shattered fragments with his own eyes. I wavered at the top of the stairs, sick with the memory of something he’d said in Haven. 

“Solas?”

If he heard me, he showed no sign, and I took another cautious step before the fragile tenor of his voice stopped me cold.

“The orb.”

I’d stood beside him as Wisdom faded to dust, but I’d never heard him so lost.

In the heat of the moment, everything seemed perfectly clear, but now…Now the focus of a Creator had been reduced to lifeless rock, untold potential destroyed by my hand. What could we have accomplished for The People if I’d even tried to save it?

My mouth went dry. “I’m so sorry.”

“It is not _your_ fault,” he said, stumbling over the word.

Solas gently set the orb aside, then pushed up on one knee to stand. I watched him struggle to quiet his grief before turning to fix his eyes on mine, expression softening to something plaintive. My heart clenched with the certainty of what I'd tried to deny.

“There’s more, isn’t there?”

He shook his head, for once having nothing to hide. “It was not supposed to happen this way.”

His voice was paper thin as he turned from me, head bowed beneath the weight of confession. I held my breath against the kernel of suspicion that lodged in my chest, denying it room to grow. Oh, gods.

“No matter what happens,” he said. “I want you to know that what we had was real.”

Vhenan. Sa’lath. Please. I licked my lips, but the words wouldn’t come. He was searching for something too, but it was Cassandra’s frantic cries that broke the silence between us.

“Inquisitor! Are you alive?”

Instinct turned me round, and I wavered but a moment. He hadn’t waited this long to confess before a human audience, and deserved no less than my full attention. There would be time enough for explanation in the months to come.

There was so much I wanted to tell him in turn. About Mythal and Kieran, all that I’d seen in the Fade, and what it meant to bear the Anchor without an orb. 

But for now I had one last duty, and he needed time to mourn.

I was loathe to let him go, but picked my way down the ruined stairs in good faith. Solas once promised all would be made clear, and I was not so shemlen to demand that it be _now._ If what he said was true, then we hadn’t reached the end, but a new beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even know what to say right now. I'm...I just...Thank you.
> 
> All of you. Those of you who've been reloading since December, those of you who found me last week. Everyone who comments, everyone who doesn't, thank you for taking the time to follow along. You'll never know how much its meant for me to find a voice, and to know that you were listening.
> 
> <3 <3 <3


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